


I Have Crossed the Horizons to Find You

by Tate_The_Great



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Yoda Acquisition, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, That's Not How The Force Works, Written Pre-Ch 3 of Hidden and Revealed, the obligatory memory loss fic no one asked for, wheres the tag for a one sided established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22082641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tate_The_Great/pseuds/Tate_The_Great
Summary: Sent for Reconditioning.Those three simple words are followed by a six digit date. And another. And another. And another. The last one is exactly eight months ago.How many times had CT-113 been sent to the lower levels? Why doesn’t he remember it? What had he done? Why had it happened? What had they done to him?———————Updated Note: This fic was written before Chapter 3 of Hidden and Revealed.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret) & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret)/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 300
Kudos: 601





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Family and Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758992) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 



> This is my first fanfic so be nice but also I need constructive criticism so be mean. I've never published anything until I found this fandom of a fandom. I love Corin and couldn't get this idea out of my head so here we are. Thank you so much to Lady Irina for sharing her work with us! I hope I do your OC justice.
> 
> ————————  
> Edit 4/20/20: oof. Uhh for any new readers this fic was written before the Lady’s current story arc starting with Chapter 3 of Hidden and Revealed. And although my baby is irrelevant now I hope you find some enjoyment in her, whether as a reread or as something “new”. I promise I didn’t steal the idea form Lady, none of us knew she was going to head this direction.

CT-113 was the perfect soldier. He followed orders without question. Did not speak unless spoken to. Reported exactly on time for everything. When he was reassigned from one job to another, he did not question it. He was reassigned often, more often than any of the other troopers in the squads he had been a part of, but good troopers kept their heads down and their mouths shut and did not question the will of their officers. So CT-113 did the same. He followed orders without question, hesitation, or remorse. What his superior officers did or did not do with him was up to luck and nothing more. 

Protocol states that a trooper must report to the superior officer of their new division for a preliminary interview with each reassignment. CT-113 had gotten used to this routine. He would get new orders, a new officer, and another interview almost once a month. Some troopers spent years with the same division yet the constant shuffle has been part of his bad luck for as far back as CT-113 can remember. He doesn’t remember much, now that he thinks about it. He doesn’t question it. 

New orders come with a flash on his HUD. There are clear instructions about when and where to report. They are simple.  _ Submit your blaster for inspection. Report to Room 472 and await further instructions.  _ There is nothing directly stating that he is being reassigned but after the 3rd time those exact words had come up, CT-113 had noticed a trend. He abandons his guard post inside of TIE bay 776-2 and heads upstairs towards the officers quarters. 

The halls of the Star Destroyer are as quiet as they are clean. Each breath rattles through the air filter of CT-113’s helmet; every step he takes like a thundering echo through the entire ship. When he occasionally passes another trooper, not a single word or glance is exchanged between them. CT-113 itches for chaos to break loose on the bridge. Maybe then the quiet wouldn’t be so loud against his nerves. He knows he hasn’t done anything wrong, but he still gets nervous for each interview anyway. He can’t help but feel like something is missing in the silence, like the rattle from a haphazardly repaired engine or the fussing of a child. He brushes the thoughts away and refocuses on the task at hand. 

When CT-113 sits in front of- he squints as his new officer’s name comes up in the corner of his HUD- Captain Holden, he makes sure his posture is perfect. The older officer has a thin scar across her chin. It’s almost unnoticeable, but CT-113 has always had an eye for detail. He wonders where she got it, but doesn’t dare ask. She’s dressed in the standard officer attire but the tilt of her mouth and inquisitive angle of her eyes is not standard. CT-113 can already tell this interview is going to be different from the others. 

“You’ve been reassigned ten times in the last eight months. Care to tell me why?” Captain Holden’s voice is sharp and accusing. She wants the answer to the same question CT-113 has been asking himself. Her fingers tap against the holopad, open to CT-113’s file, as she waits for a response. 

CT-113 clears his throat before he answers her. His mouth is dry with disuse, and he eyes the water that sits on her desk. He can imagine himself grabbing it, his gloved fingers wrapping around the glass and taking it out from under her indignant face. It would only be a small act of defiance but even that might get him killed. CT-113 does his best to give the captain an answer he does not know. “I must have been performing badly.” In truth, he can’t help but think he would’ve been put down long ago if he was just bad at his job. Slackers weren’t tolerated so what made CT-113 worth the trouble of constant reassignments?

“Your file shows perfect marks in every category we’ve tested you in. Punctuality, marksmanship, hand-to-hand, obedience, and yet you have still managed to find yourself at my desk.” The captain pauses as though she waiting for an answer. She did not ask a direct question, and CT-113 isn’t sure what he’d say even if she had. He keeps his mouth shut. Her eyes bore into his through the barrier of the visor. Once Captain Holden realizes he has nothing to offer her, she looks down at his file again. CT-113 pretends he isn’t watching. The other officers never really bothered to look at his file in the same way they never really bothered to ask him real questions. Mostly, they just asked what his stats were on the training sims. 

Something Captain Holden sees in his file makes her pause. CT-113 can’t imagine what it might be and against all his training he can’t help but glance towards the holopad. He doesn’t know if it’s good luck or bad luck that lets him see the bold red words against an otherwise perfect file. 

_ Sent for Reconditioning.  _

Those three simple words are followed by a six digit date. And another. And another. And another. 

How many times had CT-113 been sent to the lower levels? Why doesn’t he remember it? What had he done? Why had it happened? What had they done to him? 

His train of thought is cut off by a sharp question he doesn’t hear. Blood is rushing in his ears and there is a flood of panic through his system. CT-113 suddenly realizes he stood up and quickly sits back down. His breathing is quick and shallow. His throat threatens to close in on itself, and he knows he has to get himself under control before the Captain sends him off. 

“Sorry,” he says and knows he doesn’t mean it. Captain Holden is watching him with eyes like a hawk. Every move he makes is being analyzed. It doesn’t help to get rid of his panic. 

She sets the holopad aside and it disappears from CT-113’s view. She folds her hands in front of her and leans forward over her desk. “What’s your highest score on the sharp shooting sim?” Captain Holden asks. CT-113 recites off his numbers and can’t shake the disquieted feeling that looms for the rest of the interview. She does not ask again about why he was reassigned. 

When Captain Holden dismisses him, CT-113 follows the instructions on his HUD on where to pick up his blaster. He reports back to guard duty and absolutely does not spend the rest of his ten hour shift thinking about reconditioning, the interrogation droids, the troopers who never returned from the lower levels, or the ones that  _ did _ return with their brains half scrambled and only resembling their former selves in name. He also definitely doesn’t think about  _ why  _ he could’ve been sent down, what he could have possibly done to warrant a memory wipe, or that he doesn’t remember his own childhood or really anything from farther back than eight months ago. Because if he did think about those things, he might be sent to reconditioning.

-

CT-113 does not know what planet he is on, nor does he care. He knows that it is hot, he can’t take off his stifling helmet, and there are the distant sounds of blaster fire. This might be CT-113’s concern if he got a call on the radio or a notification. But he doesn’t, so he stays put and glares at the suns. The other trooper guarding the entrance to the hideout does not speak or bring up the blaster fire, nor do they seem affected by the heat directly over head. 

When the blaster fire begins to get closer, much closer, CT-113 decides it’s now his concern. He leaves his post, just for a minute, to peak around the corner of the building he’s supposed to be guarding. The source of the sound, as it turns out, is only five hundred meters from his position and closing fast. Whoever it was, was headed straight for their building. CT-113 turns back to the other trooper who has followed his lead in peeking around the corner. 

“What do we do?” The other trooper asks. A glance at the bottom of his HUD tells him the trooper’s code is HG-904. Helplessly, HG-904 turns to the doors of the building and bangs to be let in. The guards on the other side won’t open that door for shit and they both know it. 

CT-113 watches in morbid curiosity as the whirl-wind gets closer and closer. He thinks that a quick death might be the best kind. He doubts he’ll get the chance to negotiate but if he does, that’s all he could ask for. Maybe whatever is after, the force, elysium, or even nothing, would be better than being forced to fight for a cause he doesn’t believe in. But he’s not ready to give up yet. He has nothing to fight for except self-preservation dammit, and he still wants to know why he was sent to reconditioning. He wants to find whatever it was that made him a traitor. He wants to know what was so important that he fought back against the knife at his throat. He wants to know what it means to believe in something so much you’d be willing to risk your life for it. 

The wishful thinking gets cut off when a stray bullet hits the wall next to him. He turns to HG-904. “Here’s the plan,” he begins. He takes a deep breath and feels the expecting desperate look coming from behind the other’s helmet. “We’ve got one shot at this. You run; I’ll cover you. Call for back-up. I’m going to try to pull them off in a different direction.” 

HG-904 nods and readies their blaster. CT-113 glances down the empty market square again. Only an hour ago it had been bustling with life and color. He remembers thinking how desperately he wanted to join them. Now it was a battlefield. There was smoke and a cloud of dust and the infra-red filter picked up on several dead bodies, probably troopers. He turns back to HG. “Go!” He snaps and HG takes off down the street, tripping over their own feet and nearly dropping their blaster in the process. CT-113 jumps out behind them but instead of running for cover, he turns towards the chaos. He jumps behind a tipped over vendor booth and fires blindly to get the attention of the attacker. It works. A blaster bolt collides with the thatch awning and blows it into the sand-riddled wind. Debris goes everywhere and even more dust clouds CT-113’s vision. He uses the temporary cover to continue down the street. He finds a crate to duck behind and waits. 

If good luck is on his side, the hunter will think he’s still farther down the street, walk past CT-113 in an attempt to get closer, and then CT-113 can attack from behind. He puts aside his blaster and hides. He pulls down a tarp and slings half of it over the crate. He’d be nearly impossible to see from the other side. CT-113 steadies his breathing. He’s gotta calm down if he wants even a chance at not being found. He risks a peak around the crate. 

In the midst of the smoke, he sees a figure walking towards him. It has a pulse rifle in its hands. As the dust begins to settle, CT-113 sees the suns glinting off a silver polished helmet. The silhouette comes into view and CT-113 thinks he might have a clear shot but he still waits. He can’t risk compromising his potion. The hunter is covered head to toe in the shiny metal alloy. For a moment, the shooting stops and CT-113 gets a second to just look at his attacker. The shape of the visor is the most distinct thing about the hunter. A narrow T that can’t be easy to see out of. There is a filthy and torn cape slung over one shoulder and a satchel over the other. There’s two more blasters on the hip, a knife in a small sheath, and some sort of circular incendiaries clipped to a belt. 

The hunter walks forward, meticulous in checking every downed trooper. It kicks the helmet off of each one as though looking for a certain person. What low-level stormtrooper would have a bounty on their head? At any rate, CT-113 knew it wasn’t him and if he didn’t eliminate the target first, he’d be nothing more than another dead trooper. 

CT-113 held his breath as the figure got closer. He waits and watches. As he predicted, the hunter walks right past him, barely glancing at the dusty crate. As they take another step, CT-113 sees his opportunity. Their back is turned, he has a clear shot. He raises his blaster to shoot, he exhales, his finger curls on the trigger. There’s a coo. 

Both him and the hunter freeze, turning towards the source of the noise. It’s coming from the satchel slung across the hunter’s shoulder. The bag fusses loudly, kicking out until it’s finally pulled out into the daylight. CT-113 pulls back in shock when a baby is revealed. It’s a small green big-eared child currently throwing a massive tantrum. It cries and kicks to be let down no matter how much it’s guardian refuses to do so. 

CT-113 relaxes his hold on the blaster. He can’t kill them. Not now. He stays in hiding and hopes for as much good luck as he can that the figure continues on it’s way and he would be able to stay hidden. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to kill the baby. Please just let them leave. 

Good luck is not on his side. 

The hunter finally gives in and set the child down. It doesn’t have much of a choice as the baby practically throws itself out of their hands. The green thing immediately quiets down as soon as it’s feet touch the ground. It turns and runs towards where CT-113 is hiding. It happens in a flash. The tarp is pulled back, the hunter is looming over him, casting a shadow over CT-113’s hiding place. The child squeals and screams as it pulls on CT-113’s plastisteel arm brace. The trooper’s helmet is torn off of him before he can even begin to fight back. The suns blind CT-113 momentarily as he sees the world for the first time in months without the filter from the helmet. He opens his eyes to see the armored figure hasn’t moved, hasn’t shot him, hasn’t done anything. It’s frozen. The child still fusses and pulls at the arm brace, trying to get his attention. 

“Corin.” The word is pained and desperate as it comes through the helmet. CT-113 sees his chance and takes it. He grabs his blaster from the dust, shoots the figure in the chest, grabs the child, and takes off. He spares once glance back to see the hunter laid out against the ground.

He runs for a while. Not sure where to go. Not sure if anyone is still following him. Not sure if the hunter is really even dead or not. He slows to a walk and takes a look at his surroundings. The suns aren’t quite over head anymore. The town has thinned from a market square to low wide buildings that probably operate as warehouses or scrap shops. There’s a house or guard station here and there but mostly everything is silent and still. Odd for the middle of the day. 

Once the heat of the moment has passed, CT-113 realizes he’s probably the stupidest person alive. He grabbed the kid.  _ Why  _ had he grabbed the kid? It had seemed so instinctual in the moment. He had just killed the things guardian and so it was now his job to take care of it. He’s not sure why, but the idea of protecting the kid seemed  _ right _ . Looking down at the bundle of green ears and brown eyes he’s not sure he wouldn’t do it again. The child coos and giggles as it reaches up for him and something deep inside of himself stirs. 

He decides to keep moving. A stormtrooper out on his own was dead meat by any standards. A stormtrooper without his helmet and with a child might have been worse. The pair made an easy target and the town was full of people with vendettas against the empire. CT-113 can’t really blame them. 

They walk for another half hour, winding on the back roads that CT-113 isn’t familiar with. The child doesn’t fuss. In fact, it giggles and coos and chews on CT-113’s arm guard. It’s happy to be in the presence of one of the most hated groups in the galaxy. CT-113’s stomach sinks when he thinks of the kid realizing what he is. Turning against him. Screaming for help. He’s not sure why the baby’s opinion of him matters so much but it does. 

In another life, CT-113 wishes he could be a civilian. Wishes he could live his life without fear of the empire or the new republic. He just wants to sit somewhere in the snow and watch the sunrise. But that’s too much good luck and the idea is dangerous to entertain. He didn’t choose to be a stormtrooper, or at least he doesn’t remember choosing to be one. He can’t imagine anyone chooses this life. Maybe all of them are like him, stolen from somewhere and reconditioned into a mindless drone. But he’s not a mindless drone. Not anymore. For god's sake he just kidnapped a kid!

The kid in his arms seems completely unconcerned about the sudden twist of events. The disappearance of its parent doesn’t seem to upset it in the slightest. It actually seems happy to be in CT-113’s care. Maybe killing the previous parent was how the hunter acquired the kid in the first place. CT-113 glances behind them to find they’re still not being followed. He picks up the pace anyway. 

They must walk a lot faster than CT-113 realizes because they find themselves at the edge of the city in only half an hour. He’s not sure where to go from here. He has nothing, no one, and nowhere. For half a moment he considers just returning to his post. 

Before he has a chance to make up his mind, there’s a grunt from behind. CT-113 spins around just in time to see the shining silver armor right behind him and then the world goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CT-113 meets his kidnapper. Baby Yoda gets fed. A ship breaks. Din wants to strangle someone. All in all, par for the course with our favorite trio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you guys enough for the overwhelming support you've given me! I couldn't ask for a better fanbase on my first fanfic. 
> 
> Surprising no-one, I ran into plot so buckle up. I also updated the tags since our boy Corin became AO3 official! 
> 
> I couldn't have done any of this without my beta Aoishin. Thanks for sticking with me through a near complete rewrite and major swerve of plot planning! 
> 
> Enjoy?

CT-113 wakes up on a strange ship. The familiar high pitched whirr of a hyperdrive sends a spike of fear through his stomach. His breathing picks up as he tries to quickly scan the room he’s being held in. It’s hard to focus in on one thing at a time. The skull-splitting pressure behind his temples isn’t helping either. 

He takes a deep breath, and then another. The blanket is soft under his fingers. His hands rub over the thick wool fibers. It’s a worn blue color that’s seen much better days. There’s a bloodstain in the corner that was attempted to be washed out. The blanket spreads like an ocean over the bed CT-113 is sitting on. The pillow at its’ head is a white-sand island. He feels like he’s drowning. 

He swallows and takes another breath. The choking panic eventually begins to loosen its grip. CT-113 tries to brush a hand through his hair. He knows there must be dried blood surrounding the ice pick behind his right temple. Except when he goes to reach for the wound, his hand is stopped by electrocuffs chaining him to the wall. 

With the free hand, CT-113 tests the strength of the connection. The second he pulls on the cuff, it tightens the link and his hand is jerked closer to the wall. His stomach flips. He’s trapped. Stuck. 

He’s been kidnapped by that damn silver-skinned bounty hunter. 

CT-113 needs to calm down before he loses it completely. If he wants any chance of escaping, he has to keep himself under control. He’s a soldier dammit. He can do this. 

An engine rattles loud enough to be heard over the whine of the hyperdrive. He knows that sound. He doesn’t know  _ why _ he knows it, but he does. The air around him is stale and recycled. The metallic taste of blood sits on the back of his tongue. CT-113 takes a few more deep breaths. He doesn’t realize his eyes are closed until he can finally open them. His heartbeat isn’t so loud in his ears anymore.

The cargo-hold CT-113 is being held in has been converted to some kind of living quarters. It’s obvious the manufacturer didn’t intend for the ship to be lived in. 

There’s a kitchenette in the corner that is fitted with mix-matched appliances that have obviously been salvaged from other star-cruisers. The counter is a different color than the walls which are a different color than the incinerator. The three chairs are all different shapes and sizes. One of them even has a highchair affixed to the top of it. The patchwork theme is constant through the rest of the hold. Even the sheet metal holding the ship itself together seemed to be salvaged. 

CT-113 continues to look around, searching for a possible escape route. There are a couple of storage cabinets along the wall and a closet in the corner. A well worn ladder is welded to the wall opposite of CT-113 and probably leads up to somewhere important. 

There’s a carbonite freezer in a nook that was probably intended to hold boxes. It’s empty right now, but CT-113 has a feeling it won’t be for long. His stomach drops like an engine stalling or a jump trooper with a busted pack. His head throbs. The inevitability of his death settles like duristeel in his bones. 

As he continues his scan, CT-113 notices a pile of stark white armor and an E-11 blaster thrown into a corner. It takes him a little too long to realize it’s his own. He becomes hyper aware of the absence of the familiar weight. It makes him feel even more vulnerable in this strange place. 

CT-113 knows that if he wants any chance of making out of here alive, he needs some sort of weapon. The hunter wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave one within reach, but maybe CT-113 could find something else. A screw might be enough to bust the cuffs open so he can reach his stuff. 

There is an exposed pipe running up the wall next to the bed. The electrocuffs are hooked onto it. If CT-113 can manage to unscrew one of the joints, he can slip the cuffs over the opening. He’d be free. 

He hops off the bed and crouches next to the pipe. It’s bolted in securely. As mix-matched as this ship might be, it’s put together well. This pipe wouldn’t come loose easily. CT-113 jerks on it anyway. The rattle travels up the pipe and through the ship. 

It’s loud enough that CT-113’s gut sinks. Wherever the hunter is, they’ll know CT-113 is awake. His panic drives him to action. He knows he doesn’t have much time left now, but if he just manages to get free, he’ll have a chance. His nails dig into one of the screws. He twists as hard as he can. The screw doesn’t budge. His fingers start to bleed as he claws desperately at the joint.

The pipe rattles again with his efforts. A small distressed noise comes from the closet. CT-113 stops and looks over. The noise comes again louder and this time it sounds like a cry.  _ The kid! _ He’d woken up the kid. He didn’t even know the little thing was still alive. Was it okay? What did the hunter plan to do with it?!

“What the hell are you doing?” A voice growls. 

CT-113 flinches away and ducks his head. He’s been caught. If he’s going to die, CT-113 thinks, let it be quick. Let the kid be safe. 

Nothing happens. After a moment of silence, the paranoia outweighs the fear, and CT-113 turns to see his captor. 

The hunter stands at the foot of the ladder, arms crossed over the silver chest plate, T-visor pointed directly in CT-113’s direction. There is anger in every line of the hunter’s body, his muscles taut, his posture rigid. Even from several feet away, he still looms over CT-113. Everything about him projected danger. His stance spoke of years of combat training with his feet shoulder width apart and knees just slightly bent. The hunter looks like something out of CT-113’s nightmares. Fear, hot and white, builds in the pit of his stomach.

It occurs to CT-113 that the bounty hunter is a Mandalorian. A real one. He hadn’t even been sure if any of them still existed. His silver armor was beskar then. Had to be. 

CT-113 swallows. He knows his eyes must be the size of saucers. His hands start to shake, and he can barely manage to get a good enough grip on the bed to pull himself up. Even if he could find the words, he wouldn’t be able to speak. The fear drives him back to his training. The second he’s managed to clamber back up on the bed, he keeps his mouth shut and his eyes down. He makes himself as small as possible, shoulders rolled in. 

There’s a resigned sigh and then footsteps. CT-113 can’t help but glance up to make sure the Mandalorian isn’t headed towards him. Instead, the Mandalorian heads for the closet in the corner. CT-113 watches him from the corner of his vision.

The door opens with a woosh, and CT-113 catches a glimpse of big ears and eyes before his view is blocked by beskar. Relief washes over him, and he lets out a quiet sigh. He was worried that the little guy had gotten hurt in all the chaos. 

“Is he okay?” CT-113 can’t stop the words before they slip from his mouth. He needs to know. He fights against his fear to chance another look at the kid. All six fingers and all six toes. 

The Mandalorian doesn’t look over at CT-113. “Yes. You woke him up.” He carries the kid straight past CT-113 and into the kitchenette. 

There’s an awkward silence as the room fills with tension. CT-113 has been kidnapped, force knows why, and this hunter doesn’t seem in any mood to talk. CT-113 can’t imagine why he doesn’t just kill him. Surely, CT-113 isn’t the bounty. He’d know if he had a bounty on his head. Right? It’s not like the empire would’ve told him even if he had. He’s on his own now. They won’t spare the manpower for a single MIA trooper.

The Mandalorian sets the child down on the counter. He busies himself making a dish for the child as though CT-113 wasn’t there at all. If it’s a game of silence he wants to play, CT-113 can do that. He must’ve gone a full week or more without speaking on the Star Destroyer, and he can do it again. 

CT-113 just watches from his place on the bunk. He’s defensive and uneasy in this strange place. His fingers itch for a weapon. The child chews on a worn blue stuffed krill it produced from seemingly nowhere. The innocence tugs at a place in CT-113’s chest. What was this tiny kid doing in a place like this? The big doe eyes were a sharp contrast with the harsh, intimidating presence of the Mandalorian. Why was a bounty hunter taking care of a kid in the first place? CT-113 had so many questions. 

The Mandalorian rummages through cabinets. Multiple fruits go into a blender. The paste that it produces is an absolutely disgusting brown color, but the child trills at the smell. 

“Who are you?” The Mandalorian asks after he’s settled across from the kid. His voice hard and unyielding. He doesn’t look over at him, but CT-113 knows he’s watching anyway. 

The question throws him for a loop. CT-113 isn’t sure what this Mandalorian wants from him. Why would the hunter kidnap him if he didn’t know who he was? “CT-113,” he recites. “Third division stormtrooper from the 501st regiment. Recently reassigned from the 433 scout regiment on Frag-“

“Fraglia. I know. That’s not what I’m asking,” the Mandalorian says. “Who are you?” He asks again. The visor stayed focused on the kid. With an extremely uncharacteristic gentleness, the hunter begins to spoon whatever mash he’s made into the child’s mouth. It gurgles and reaches out for more the second the spoon is taken away from him. CT-113 is stunned into silence as he watches the display. It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to register what the hunter had said. 

“How the hell do you know where I’ve been?” CT-113 accuses. He ignores the question he’s already answered. This day just can’t get any weirder. 

“The kid.” The Mandalorian doesn’t elaborate as though that explained everything. CT-113 takes it back, this day can get a lot weirder. 

“The kid?” CT-113 asks, hoping for an explanation. He doesn’t get one. He glances to the bubbling child that waves at him with its three clawed hands. CT-113 can’t help the little wave he sends back with his free hand. How could a baby track him? 

The Mandalorian says nothing and continues to spoon feed the baby. There’s a tension in his frame that wasn’t there before. CT-113 remembers his training and stays silent. He keeps his mouth shut against the flurry of questions he needs to ask. He glances at his armor and blaster that remain out of reach. 

The kid burbles in a language that is definitely not basic. CT-113 almost recognizes it. He has an overwhelming feeling of déjà-vu. He’s been here before. He knows this place, those sounds, that helmet.  _ Why _ . CT-113 begins to grow frustrated. He wants answers. Against all his training, he speaks out of turn. 

“What are you going to do with me?” The question comes out more accusatory than CT-113 would’ve liked. It makes the kid’s ears droop and guilt squeezes his chest, but he maintains his glare anyway. The T-visor finally turns to look at him, and CT-113 wants nothing more than to yank that thing off his head. He wants to know what the mando is thinking. Frustration and anger twists his mouth into a snarl.

The Mandalorian shrugs. It’s a helpless motion and not at all what CT-113 expected. “Nothing,” he sighs, voice broken. The word is almost mumbled it’s so low. He gently takes the kid under his arm, tossing the empty bowl into the sink, and bypasses CT-113 completely as he climbs back up the ladder. 

CT-113 wants to scream. Frustration, anger and fear swirl violently in his gut. The hull falls silent again and he’s left alone with his thoughts. It doesn’t take long for his exhaustion to catch up. The running and the head injury and the panic all fall down on top of him. The adrenaline crash leaves him shaky and weak. He can barely keep his eyes open. No amount of training prepared him for this. What is he supposed to do now? CT-113 falls asleep sitting up, head resting against the metal wall he’s chained to. 

-

CT-113 is startled from his unrestful sleep when the ship shakes and alarms upstairs start blaring. He tries to stand but the best he can do is sit on the edge of the bunk. The ship shakes again and he has to use his free hand to grab the edge of the bed to keep from falling off. The sharp metal bites into his skin, and he hisses in pain when an unsanded edge slices his palm. CT-113 wipes the blood on his thigh, barely noticeable against the black undersuit, and shakes out the pain. It gives him something to focus on aside from the fear of whatever is shooting at them, and the dull throbbing in his head that still hasn’t gone away. How hard had the Mandalorian hit him?

The ship banks a hard right, shakes again, and then straightens out. CT-113 can hear the firing of laser cannons and he’s not sure where they’re coming from. For the kid’s sake, he hopes it’s not a TIE fighter. 

The alarms from the cockpit are still going off. The ship gets hit again, but this time the shaking turns into a full on explosion. CT-113 falls off the bunk completely. He catches himself on his injured hand and leaves a bloody palm print on the diamond bit metal flooring. He pushes himself to his knees when he realizes the alarms from the cockpit have turned into a full on siren throughout the entire ship. Has the hull been breached? The ship is still, unnaturally still. The ever-continuous rattling from the engine has stopped. They’re dead in the water. Whoever was shooting at them has got them pinned. With the ship now quiet, CT-113 can hear ion engines outside. 

The Mandalorian hastily jumps down from the cockpit. The child is held tightly in his arms. His movements are urgent but unpanicked. The hunter keeps his calm as the child is shut away in the closet. Another button is pushed and a secondary shutter folds down from the ceiling to cover the closet door. CT-113 squints, was that beskar too? 

With his hands now freed, the Mandalorian turns to one of the storage cabinets and begins to pull out more weapons than CT-113 has seen in his life. The pulse rifle from earlier, or was it yesterday, is thrown across his back. 

There’s a click and CT-113 finds the cuff on his wrist has slid open. “Get up. He’s here,” The Mandalorian barks. His E-11 blaster is thrown at him and then a sheathed knife.

“He? Who is he?” CT-113 asks once he gets over the shock of not only being freed but then armed as well. He’s under no illusion that he could fight the Mandalorian. Especially not with the hunter armed to the teeth and still pulling out more weapons. 

“Jax,” The Mandalorian responds. His focus is on the weapons cabinet. Only briefly does the visor glance towards CT-113. “Get your armor.” He motions towards the plastisteel that’s been well and truly scattered across the floor. 

“Who’s Jax?” CT-113 asks as he clicks the armor into place with military quickness and efficiency. He awaits further instructions. “What does he want with you? Or me? I’m just a stormtrooper.” Surely they wouldn’t send anyone important on a rescue mission. There had to be more to this story. There’s a dozen more questions for every two the Mandalorian answers. Now is not the time to ask them. 

CT-113 isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do in this situation. His training sure as hell never covered this. He wants to run back to the empire, to hand himself over freely, to surrender and hope they’ll take him back. Maybe they would know he’d been kidnapped instead of deserting. Or maybe they’d just kill him for yet again being an inconvenience. 

“Carnor Jax. Empire. He’s after the kid,” the hunter says, as though CT-113 should know who that is. 

The two stand there for a moment just staring at each other. CT-113 is trying to get a read on what the Mandalorian could be thinking. The air becomes charged with something he’s never felt before. It’s sharp, intense, like anger or desperation. 

“How’s your head?” The Mandalorian abruptly asks. He takes a step forward, gloved hand reaching out. CT-113 winces in preparation for the punch that is sure to follow. The outstretched hand falters and pulls back. 

The ship lurches violently to the side and they both lose their balance. CT-113 falls to the ground for the third time that hour and grits his teeth in frustration. So much for non-slip flooring. The Mandalorian is quick to regain his footing.

The Mandalorian holds out a hand to help CT-113 to his feet. There’s a moment of hesitation before the stormtrooper takes it. He’s pulled to his feet by the hunter and then closer. Close enough that he can hear the helmet’s air filters with every breath. The hand comes up to his shoulder and, with a reassuring pressure, slides across the plastisteel to hold at CT-113’s neck. The touch is more grounding than it has any right to be. For a split second, CT-113 feels like he belongs right here, in a broken ship, in the arms of a cold-blooded killer, with death just outside the thin walls. The feeling is gone as quick as it came.

There’s another blast to the ship. The grip on his bicep is the only reason CT-113 doesn’t fall again. The Mandalorian meets his gaze, T-visor sharp and steady. 

“Protect the kid. They will kill him if they find him. Do you understand?” The Mandalorian’s voice is hard but desperate. The grip on CT-113’s arm tightens. The Mandalorian is trusting a storm trooper with the care of his child. A storm trooper he kidnapped and chained to a wall. 

CT-113 is confused. He had stolen the kid less than a day ago. For all the Mandalorian knows, CT-113 is still loyal to the empire. He  _ is _ still loyal to the empire. What makes this bounty hunter so sure he’s willing to betray that code for the sake of one little green alien? CT-113 has never been trusted with anything important for as far back as he can remember, and now he’s being handed an actual child. 

The conflict races through CT-113’s head. He wants to question the Mandalorian’s motivations. He wants to know why. He wants to turn and run back to the empire where he doesn’t have to think for himself, where luck took care of his fate.

But then he thinks of the kid. The kid that giggled and waved to him. The kid that seemed so happy and at peace in CT-113’s arms even as they ran for their lives. He was innocent, pure, defenseless. CT-113 thinks of how  _ right _ it felt to hold him. How it felt like he had known, carried, and cared for the child all his life. 

The questions of loyalty and treason war in CT-113’s mind but none of that matters right now. Above all, he’s a soldier. If there’s one thing he can do, it’s following orders. “Roger that.”

There’s a beat of hesitation from the Mandalorian, as though he doesn’t quite know how to respond. The T-visor just stares at him. The tension builds and snaps in the span of a heartbeat. 

“Don’t do anything stupid, Corin.” The Mandalorian’s voice is stern, but his actions betray his true emotions. He leans in, helmet gently pressing against CT-113’s forehead. The cool metal feels like hope. The action is so startling that CT-113 actually jerks backwards out of the Mandalorian’s hold. The gloved hand on the back of his neck drops. Under the empire, physical touch always meant pain and punishment, but when the Mandalorian takes a step back, it feels like a step in the wrong direction. 

The blank visor just stares at him for a moment before the Mandalorian lets out a heavy, resigned sigh and looks away. CT-113 still doesn’t know what to think. His mind races a mile a minute and goes nowhere. 

A heavy hand on his chest plate pushes CT-113 backwards and into the closet with the kid. The door snaps shut just as another bolt hits the ship. 

-

Din grits his teeth in frustration. Anger and hatred bubbles in his chest until it boils over. He wants nothing more than to put Corin in a corner and force him to listen, force some damn sense into that thick skull. He wants to wrap him in a blanket and steal all three of them off onto some remote planet until Corin is  _ Corin _ again. Until his husband’s blue eyes are no longer dull and blank from whatever the fuck they put into his head. 

Din wants vengeance most of all. He wants to watch Jax burn upon the throne he’s built for himself. He wants to feel the crunch of bones under his hands. A blaster is too good for Jax. Din wants to savor every moment the Sith Lord suffers. Luckily for him, a chance for revenge he so desperately craves has been handed to Din on a silver platter. 

He pushes CT-113 into the closet and closes it as quickly as he had clicked it open. He has no doubt about the child’s safety. The stormtrooper betrayed the empire once for the kid, he’d do it again. Corin must still be in there somewhere. That hope is all Din has left to hang on to. Because if he’s not hopeful, Din might go crazy himself. 

For his own sake, Din separates the two in his mind. CT-113 might’ve had Corin’s face, but that stormtrooper in the closet was nothing like him. If anything happened, Din rationalized, it wouldn’t be Corin getting hurt. 

The  _ Razor Crest _ shutters as yet another bolt strikes her hull. Din doesn’t have time to take care of CT-113 right now. He needs to keep all three of them safe. Then they could talk. 

The Mandalorian heads to the cockpit and signals a surrender. The blaster fire stops almost immediately and a tractor beam locks onto the beaten ship. Din affectionately brushes a hand against the control panel. The  _ Crest  _ had been through so much and was now long past her prime, but she always came through when it really mattered. The repairs Corin had made during their stay on Endor held steady. He smiles to himself at the memory of the kid playing with the Ewoks. 

The other ship isn’t large enough to pull the  _ Razor Crest  _ inside of it. In fact, the imperial ship is much smaller than Din expected. He knew finding Corin was no accident. He had expected some sort of convoy to greet them once they had reached open space. But one small ship? It was almost too easy. 

The imperial ship pulls up to dock and the  _ Crest _ shutters as the air locks are linked. The furious sound of banging reignites Din’s anger. He slides down the ladder and walks over to the hatch in the floor. He knows if he doesn’t open it quickly, they’ll blast it open. The  _ Crest _ deserves better than that. 

He takes one more cursory glance around the hold. Everything seemed to be in place. The kid and CT-113 were safe in the closet. Din’s eyes narrow in on the bloody handprint on the floor. He lets out a frustrated sigh and files away another injury to be looked at later. 

Din charges his pulse rifle and throws open the door. 

———

_ Fourteen Months Earlier _

  
  


_ Carnor Jax was alone in the imperial records room. Between his training sessions, he often travelled down to the library to find solace in the old stories and accomplishments of the Sith.  _

_ Today, Jax found himself in the more recent imperial data dumps. A simple keyword search for “Jedi” had brought him into the logs of a crazed fanatic. Moff Gideon.  _

_ The data logs had acted as a diary of sorts. They were only intended to record the comings and goings of the day, but Gideon went above and beyond the standard procedure.  _

_ It had started with The Purge of the Mandalorians, Jax noted. Gideon’s data logs had been fairly standard up until that point. And then they spiraled into a fascination and hunt for what he called “The Dark Saber.”  _

_ Most of the data logs were nothing more than crazed fanatical gibberish, but one thing stood out to Jax above all else, Gideon was on the hunt for a force user. The Child, as he called it, had been born the same year as Darth Vadar. A counterbalance in the Force. Two extremely powerful beings willed into existence by the galaxy itself. They were  _ both _ The Chosen-Ones. _

_ Jax frowned, if the Child was truly Darth Vadar’s equal, surely they would have heard of him by now. Why wouldn’t the rebellion have used this Jedi during the war?  _

_ Interest piqued, Jax kept reading. He flipped to the last of Gideon’s data entries. It was dated two years ago. Gideon had honed in on the child’s location, on the planet Drall, and had planned an ambush to capture it. There was no further entry.  _

_ Jax searched for any kind of update but found nothing. Moff Gideon’s official death date was marked the morning after the last data entry. Cause of death: MIA.  _

_ The Child was still alive, and Jax was going to find it.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering "who tf is Jax" fear not. Carnor Jax is a character from the Starwars extended universe/legends. I won't get into the lore or his backstory. He is a real character though so if you want to go read his wookiepedia page, I highly encourage it! All you need to know is that he's a sith apprentice who wants power. He thinks Baby Yoda will help him accomplish that. 
> 
> Hope y'all like this chapter as much as you guys seemed to like the last one!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ship is more broken. Din is tired. CT-113 just wants answers already. The child loves to cause chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took me so long. The spring semester started and I was totally unprepared to go back. I've been writing this in my spare time (which has not been much). To make up for it, have an extra long chapter. All the love to my beta Aoishin who says they're not a writer but still gives the best feed back and always has the best ideas.

The entire ship rocks when it links with the other. The jerk catches CT-113 off guard. He braces himself with a hand against the wall. His other is firmly wrapped around the child. 

He doesn’t know why the Empire would want the child. He’s helpless. Surely they wouldn’t chase down the kid just to kill it? Why put in the effort for something so small? 

CT-113 looks down at the nervous child. It’s teeth chatter and the too-big ears are tucked back against its head. “What’s so special about you, huh?” He soothes, voice calm and even. The kid looks up at him and whines. CT-113 brushes his hand over the wrinkled forehead and across the faint wisps of hair that are softer than silk. “You can’t even talk yet, can you?” 

The baby coos again, but it’s significantly calmer now. CT-113 can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips. The little guy was cute, he had to give him that. 

The sound of blaster fire startles both of them. The baby whines and ducks his face in CT-113’s chest. CT-113 clutches his blaster a little tighter. Though the sounds were concerning, they also meant the Mandalorian was still alive. The silences between each shot were filled with anxiety and anticipation for the next shot, and that the next shot wouldn’t come. CT-113 didn’t realize he was squeezing the kid until it cried out. 

“Sorry!” CT-113 whispers, trying to calm the kid down again. If they made too much noise, there’s no telling who might find them. His gut twisted when he thought about the empire taking him. If defending the child meant treason, then CT-113 was willing to go against everything he believed in for his protection. 

The kid is easy to take care of. Once CT-113 gets him to calm down, the poor thing just curls up in his chest, obviously scared for his father. He plays with a few toys, showing each one to CT-113 as though it were a precious treasure. There’s not a lot of trouble he can cause in the tiny closet, and CT-113 realizes why it’s been chosen for the child’s room. It’s completely baby-proofed. No sharp edges. Nothing valuable or breakable. It’s also a great hiding place. The kid is small enough that he doesn’t mind the cramped quarters. 

There are several drawings hung up around the closet. All of them are obviously drawn by the kid. There are a few that have noticeably better features. There is a tree in one of the drawings that has shading and defined lines as though someone helped him draw it. CT-113 laughs at the bizarre mental image of the mandalorian sitting down to draw with the kid. As he continues to look around he sees several self-portraits. A green blob with big green ears and sometimes brown smudges for eyes. The mandalorian makes an appearance in several of the drawings, silver beskar and T-visor unmistakable even through the view of messy colored wax and uncoordinated fingers. 

There is a third person too. It shows up in the same amount, if not more, drawings than the Mandalorian does. It’s even holding hands with the Mandalorian in one drawing. CT-113 reaches out and plucks the picture from the wall. He frowns as he examines it. The third figure was human, or appeared so if the child's drawing was to be trusted. It had dark hair and blue eyes. It had brown and silver armor like the Mandalorian yet it didn’t wear a helmet. Did the kid have a second parent? Where were they?

The fighting outside goes on for quite a while, and CT-113 has no choice but to just sit there and baby-sit. He wants to help. He knows that if he doesn’t make himself useful, the Mandalorian might realize that CT-113 is just a waste of resources and drop him off on the next planet. At this point, CT-113 isn’t sure he could return to the empire even if he wanted to. Where else would he go? As a defector, CT-113 automatically has a bounty on his head, and most people weren’t exactly friendly to former stormtroopers. He wouldn’t be safe no matter where he went. CT-113’s only hope is that the Mandalorian will keep him on the ship a little longer even if it’s as a prisoner.

CT-113 sighs and leans back against the wall. His head thumps against the metal. With nothing else to focus on, the pain in his hand comes back. He rubs over the cut and flexes his fingers. It was deep, blood still beading to the surface when he pulled at the wound. None of the tendons were cut though and as long as he wrapped it, it should heal quickly. It definitely wouldn’t restrict his movement, and CT-113 brushed his concerns to the side. 

The kid, which had been drawing a new picture, turned towards him. CT-113 watched as he toddled over and reached up, obviously asking for attention. The little guy was probably still worried for his dad. The blaster shots were coming less frequently now. Whatever battle had happened, was coming to an end. 

CT-113 sets his blaster aside and leans over the cot to pick up the kid, settling him in his lap. “Everything’s alright, kiddo,” He says, tracing a thumb over the tiny brown robes. 

The kid reaches out again, insistently tugging at CT-113’s sleeve until the trooper lets the kid see his injured hand. “It’s just a little cut. I’m alright.” 

The child coos and frowns, eyes squinting in concentration. It grunts a little bit with effort. CT-113 can’t do anything but watch in shock as the wound on his hand is slowly stitched closed by some invisible force. The skin knits itself together and after less than a heartbeat, the hand is good as new. No evidence that CT-113 had sliced the palm clear down to the tendon. The kid smiles, ears perking, as though nothing unusual had just happened. 

CT-113 clutches at his wrist wondering what the hell the kid had done. His eyes are wide and breathing frantic as he stares at the toddler blowing spit bubbles at him. No wonder the empire wanted him! Imagine what healing powers could do for an army! 

The sudden footsteps in the cabin snap CT-113 out of his shock. He scrambles for his blaster, marveling at the lack of pain when he grips it, and points it at the door. With his other hand he pulls the kid behind him. One of two things could be on the other side and CT-113 didn’t want to chance the kid’s safety on luck. 

The door slides open. The Mandalorian stands on the other side. The silver armor is scuffed with black scorch marks. His shoulders are hunched and most of his weight was against the door frame. His chest rises and falls with deep breaths. CT-113 could read the signs of exhaustion from a mile away. 

“You alright?” CT-113 asks tentatively. His officers were always pissy when tired. CT-113 doesn’t want to push his luck, but he also wants to make sure the Mandalorian is okay. The kid needed his father. No wounds are visible but that isn’t saying much. The baby squeals, happy to see his dad, and rushes forward to clutch at the Mandalorian’s shin guard. 

The Mandalorian nods. The movement is stilted. “Jax wasn’t on the ship. Just troopers.” While he’s talking, he reaches down to pick up the child and bounces him in his arms. He says a few words in that language again. The language CT-113 swears that he  _ knows _ but doesn’t. The headache from earlier returns with a vengeance. 

The Mandalorian turns back to the main cabin. He sets his pulse rifle in the weapons cabinet and takes out a tool box. CT-113 just sits and watches. He’s not sure how much freedom he’s allowed. Sure, the Mandalorian had unshackled him, but that was when they were being boarded. Now that the fight was over, was the Mandalorian going to tie him up again?

The tool box clatters as it’s set on the floor. The kid is set down next to it. The Mandalorian hisses and presses a hand to his low back as he straightens up. 

“C-can I help?” CT-113 speaks up. He’s doing that a lot lately, speaking out of turn. But the Mandalorian doesn’t get mad at him and instead just nods and motions for CT-113 to come over. The stormtrooper pulls himself off the cot and stands awkwardly next to the Mandalorian awaiting instructions. He stays just out of arm's reach, but CT-113 is under no delusion that he’s safe from the hunter. 

“We need to get parts from the imperial cruiser to fix the ship.” The Mandalorian turns to face him, T-visor stone cold and betraying no emotion. Even with experience reading a mask, CT-113 struggles to tell what the hunter is thinking. “Can I trust you?” The Mandalorian’s voice is steady, but CT-113 catches a hint of something else, an earnestness that he didn’t expect. The question isn’t accusing or harsh, but instead a genuine test of alliance. 

Going against everything he knows, CT-113 decides to trust his instincts. The Mandalorian is  _ safe _ . The same pull that he had felt with the kid pulls him towards the hunter as well. There is something else going on here and if CT-113 has to guess, he’d say it has something to do with the fact that he can’t remember anything beyond eight months ago. “Yes,” CT-113 hears himself say. 

The Mandalorian nods. “Good. Grab the box. We’ve got a lot to do.”

-

CT-113 drops down the hatch, his feet landing with an echo through the entire ship. It’s deadly silent. The child in his arms trills as it looks around the new place. “This is a Tartan Class Cruiser!” He recognizes it immediately. He worked on one of these for a while as a mechanic. He was horrible at his job, but he knew the ship inside and out. “This thing can hold up to 50 troopers! And it has laser cannons!” He whips around to look at the Mandalorian. “How’d we survive this thing? It should’ve blown us up before we even reached orbit.”

“It did. The  _ Crest’s  _ engines are shot to hell, but they weren’t trying to blow up the ship. Jax wants the kid alive.” The Mandalorian drops down beside the stormtrooper, now ex-trooper, and begins walking down a hallway towards where CT-113 knows the engines are.

The kid squirms in CT-113’s arms to be let down. Both of the adults automatically adjust their pace to stay with the much slower child. “So did you take out the whole crew? By yourself?” CT-113 can’t help but ask. There are no bodies in the hallway. There should’ve been nearly 70 people on board if it was running at full capacity yet there wasn’t a single person in sight. The ship was too quiet. 

“There weren’t many,” the Mandalorian says, casting a glance over his shoulder. “A squad of death troopers, but I had the advantage.” 

CT-113 nods. He’s not quite sure what to do with that information. Death troopers were an elite force. Even just one of them was worth a squad of regular troopers. Yet the Mandalorian had taken them out alone and hadn’t even sustained any major injuries. 

Once they got to the engine room, the kid rushed to a pipe that sprayed steam from a broken junction. CT-113 smiles when the kid tries to jump up and catch the fog. 

“The cooling component is totally busted, so we’ll have to take the whole unit from here.” The Mandalorian taps his wrench against a mess of pipes and wires hooked into a panel. 

“You want the whole thing?” CT-113 asks. Those were always difficult to use and even more difficult to fix. The hunter just nods and continues.

“Then the combustion valve is damaged. It’s just one piece, but it’s buried deep in the engine.” The Mandalorian continues adding to their to-do list. He names several more parts they’ll need to salvage. CT-113 wants to know how the Mandalorian expects just the two of them to do it all.

“It’s going to be impossible for just the two of us to practically rebuild those engines like you’re wanting,” CT-113 admits after the Mandalorian had finished talking. He hasn’t seen the damage for himself, but if the engines had to shut down completely, then it’s bound to be bad. While CT-113 knows his way around a wrench, there’s a reason he was fired from being a mechanic. 

The Mandalorian shakes his head. “We just need the parts. We’re going to need a real mechanic to get her running again.”

CT-113 lets out a sigh of relief. It would take hours to get all the parts, but at least they wouldn’t be stuck here for days like if they tried to do all the repairs themselves. 

-

Stripping the ship had turned out to be the easiest part. Almost rhythmic in motion. The crank of the wrench, the removal of a bolt, the snip of wire cutters, then move on to the next piece. CT-113 does most of the delicate work since he’s familiar with the ship. The Mandalorian had no complaints with hauling the parts back and forth from one engine room to the other.

After a while, the Mandalorian joins him. He sits close by, working on his own panel of wires. The silence is comfortable, but curiosity nags at the back of CT-113’s mind. 

“So um,” CT-113 says once he gets the courage to begin a conversation. “The kid did something weird to my hand. Is that normal? For him?” The injured hand felt completely normal even now. He had full use of it again. There was still no sign that anything had happened. 

The Mandalorian grunts an affirmation, but doesn’t explain anything further. CT-113 sighs internally. He was going to have to drag every bit of information from the hunter, wasn’t he? He just wants to know what the hell is going on. He wasn’t asking for a lot. 

“Is that why the Empire is after him? Because he can heal people?” CT-113 asks. He twists and snaps off a plastisteel hinge. A panel falls away and the inside of the compressor is exposed. The wiring is a mess. Whatever mechanic was assigned to this ship obviously didn’t take good care of it. 

The Mandalorian sighs, apparently resigning himself to answering CT-113’s questions.  _ Finally. _ “He’s a  _ Jetii _ . I don’t really understand it all. But he has… powers. Like healing your hand or making stuff float.” The hunter waves the tool in his hand dismissively. “Gideon was after the kid first, but I killed him. Now it’s Jax. I don’t know what they want him for, but it can’t be anything good.” The Mandalorian continues to yank away at the wires, trying to get deeper into the combustion regulator. 

A silence settles in the room. CT-113 doesn’t know anything about Jax, wasn’t even really sure the man existed before now. He wants to offer the Mandalorian some kind of insider information, something that might help him keep the kid safe, but comes up empty handed. 

They continue to work but CT-113’s thoughts keep returning to what the Mandalorian had said earlier. CT-113 almost doesn’t ask, but he does anyway. The question has been bugging him since he woke up. “Who’s Corin?” He thinks it’s a fairly neutral thing to ask. The hunter had said the name twice now, and CT-113 still isn’t sure if it was directed at him or not. 

The Mandalorian stops, freezing in his motion of twisting a spanner. CT-113 turns at the absence of sound. He’s terrified for a moment that he’s said the wrong thing, and the hunter is going to throw him from the ship. 

“You were,” the Mandalorian says, voice filled with an unfamiliar emotion. It takes CT-113 too long to realize that it’s pain. 

_ Corin.  _ The name feels foreign. Like it doesn’t belong to him. Not yet. 

CT-113 frowns. How had he forgotten his own name? What else was he missing? He pauses, setting his tools to the side and turning to face the Mandalorian fully. “My oldest memory is cleaning floors on a star destroyer. I think it was eight months ago.” When the Mandalorian doesn’t respond, CT-113 clears his throat and continues. “My file says I was sent to reconditioning just before that.”

The hunter sighs and turns to face him. CT-113 searches for answers in body language and a face he can’t see. “Who was I?” CT-113 asks, leaning forward over his knees. He knows he begging for answers, but he can’t keep himself together. The empire had taken his life from him, and he needs to know how to get it back. The child and the Mandalorian were living proof that CT-113 had had a life of his own. He needs to know.

“Who  _ am  _ I?” CT-113 reaches a hand across the space and lets it fall onto the floor between them. It’s an olive branch for peace. It’s a plea for help. 

The hunter takes a deep rattling breath to steady himself. “Your name is Corin. Corin Djaren. And you were a stormtrooper.” When he speaks his voice is quiet, as though he’s scared that CT-113 might run. As though he’s scared to admit the truth. The Mandalorian has to clear his throat before he can continue. “Your family forced you to join the imperial academy at 16 and you deserted at 28. That was three years ago.”

Doubt began to nag at the back of CT-113’s mind. He knows the hunter is withholding information from him. He has no reason to distrust the Mandalorian but the reminder of the cuffs still stings his wrists.

“How do you I know you’re telling the truth?” For all he knows, the Mandalorian could be full of shit and just using CT-113 for some scheme. With CT-113’s bad luck, a lie seems more likely than the truth. 

The hunter tenses, offended. CT-113 knows he’s glaring behind the helmet. He turns back to his work and picks up the tools he had dropped. “You have a starburst blaster scar on your stomach,” The hunter says annoyed. “You’re scared of being left behind, and you love the snow.” The Mandalorian yanks on loose wiring and the energy converter he’s working on comes free. “Is that good enough for you?” He snaps.

CT-113 doesn’t ask anymore questions. 

-

They continue to work in silence. It doesn’t take long but there is a tension in the air that wasn’t there before. CT-113 wonders what he said wrong. 

CT-113 doesn’t need to be told to take the spare parts back to the  _ Razor Crest _ . Once they’re finished, he leaves the tense Mandalorian in peace and goes to play with the kid. 

The kid sat at the helm of the  _ Razor Crest _ seemingly content to play with the dead buttons, unlit screens, and loose steering controls. He burbled to himself as he jerked around the joystick, making what CT-113 assumed to be the sound of blaster fire. He laughed as he watched the kid play pilot. 

“You’re going to get us killed flying like that,” CT-113 joked. The kid turned and let loose a happy squeal, reaching his hands for the stormtrooper, game forgotten. “I bet you press all sorts of buttons when your dad isn’t looking, don’t you?” CT-113 said. The child lifted his head proudly, ears perking. CT-113 couldn’t help his laughter. He reached forward, taking the child into his arms and bouncing the happy baby on his hip. 

CT-113 isn’t sure why the child has warmed up to him so quickly, or really showed no fear of him at all, but he’s happy at least someone wants him around. He doesn’t expect the Mandalorian to like him, or even keep him around. CT-113 doesn’t even blame him for being rude; he doesn’t exactly deserve kindness for the things he’s done. But the anger hurts. The cold shoulder and clipped answers. CT-113’s not sure  _ why _ it bothers him so much. But it does. 

The child coos and reaches up for CT-113’s cheek. The cold three fingered hand pulls him from his thoughts and puts a smile back on his face. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

-

The game they’re playing, rolling the silver ball back and forth, is interrupted by the Mandalorian climbing his way back into the  _ Crest _ . CT-113 pauses and turns. The Mandalorian turns and pulls on a lever, the hatch seals itself. Another lever is pulled and there’s a shutter through the whole ship. The imp ship had been cut loose to endlessly drift through space. Worthless now except for scrap. 

“Buir!” The child calls, holding his hands out. 

The hunter immediately obliges, picking the child up with a gentleness CT-113 didn’t know he was capable of. “How’s your head?” The Mandalorian asks but doesn’t turn to look at CT-113. 

CT-113 frowns and reaches up to his right temple. He had honestly completely forgotten about the injury. It had stopped hurting a while ago and his headache had lessened to a slight pressure instead of a piercing pain. His fingers come away clean. Whatever blood there had been, if any, must’ve been long dried by now.

“Go take a shower,” The Mandalorian says. There is no room for negotiation, but it doesn’t feel like an order. CT-113 can’t remember the last time someone was actually concerned about his well being. He doesn’t hesitate to take the outstretched hand. “Help will be here soon.”

Once he’s on his feet, CT-113 turns to head to the refresher. He doesn’t need to be told where it is, and doesn’t question how he knows. 

-

Help turned out to be another ship. CT-113 could see it approaching through the large transparisteel window of the cockpit. Whoever the pilot was, didn’t end up docking to the newly vacant port. They radioed into the  _ Crest _ . 

“What did you do to piss them off this time?” The voice came through metallic and distorted but it was still clearly female. Was this the child’s other parent?

CT-113 leans forward from his place in the co-pilot’s chair. The child slept soundly in his carrier on the third seat in the corner. The cockpit was small, but still comfortable for all three of them. 

The Mandalorian huffs in laughter. It takes CT-113 by surprise, he wasn’t even sure the hunter knew how to laugh. Maybe it was just the stormtrooper’s presence that kept him in a bad mood. 

The Mandalorian holds down a button as he speaks. “Liita, you know they don’t need a reason.” His voice is tired and irritated, but fond. The two were old friends for sure. CT-113 wonders if he’s met this woman too. 

The new ship circles the  _ Crest _ . The transmitter crackles as it flies in and out of close range. “From the looks of things from the outside, I’m surprised you’re still in one piece. I don’t know if you’ll be able to afford me after all this.” 

“Well it’s a good thing I’m don’t pay you by the hour. For as much as you like to talk, I would have gone broke years ago,” The Mandalorian says. He chuckles to himself and then turns to CT-113. The way he leans forward makes CT-113 think the Mandalorian is about to say something. But he doesn’t. Instead his shoulders drop and the humor is gone from his frame. He turns back around and settles in the pilot's seat again. 

CT-113 wonders what he did to make the hunter so mad at him. It’s not exactly like he asked the Mandalorian to steal him from the empire. He tries not to take it personally. He does anyway. 

The rescue ship attaches a toe line. A static-garbled “Hold on!” Is the only warning they get before the sudden lurch to hyper-space. 

“Haar’chak!” The Mandalorian curses, hand flying out to catch himself on the control panel. 

CT-113 reaches for the child, but it’s not necessary with how well he’s strapped in. He forgets to hold on for himself though and nearly falls out of the chair. But he doesn’t, and he’s glad to have avoided the subsequent glare. 

The hunter gathers himself and then turns around to check on the child as CT-113 had done. He shakes his head when he sees the child sound asleep. “He can sleep through all this, but the second he hears cellophane he’s wide awake.” 

CT-113 smiles. The child was an absolute terror and had already stolen his heart. 

The helmet turns to look at him. It makes CT-113 squirm in his seat. Attention of any kind never ended well for him. 

-

Din’s heart flips as he watches CT-113 flinch away from him. The stormtrooper is still wary of him. No matter how careful Din is, or how slowly he moves, CT-113 still avoids him. It probably doesn’t help that he keeps snapping at him, but Din can’t help it. 

It  _ hurts _ . 

Every time the trooper asks a question he should know the answer to. Every time he stands, his posture is too straight. His hair is too short. His eyes are too hard. His hands have calluses in the wrong places. 

The years of bringing Corin out of his shell were wiped away. The years of telling Corin he was worth something until he  _ finally _ believed it. The confidence that came from self worth was gone. The easy banter between them had been replaced with harsh tones and fear. 

Din clenches his teeth and looks away. He keeps his shoulders back and his eyes ahead and absolutely refuses to feel anything other than grateful. 

Corin’s alive. 

Yet it’s worse than anything Din expected. He could deal with broken bones and wounds and the aftershocks of torture. He could deal with finding Corin broken and lost. They’ve been through this before. Injuries were nothing new to the trio. Near death experiences were par for the course when running with their  _ aliit _ . 

But this isn’t something bacta or the child’s powers could fix. This isn’t Corin. 

This wasn’t something he could shoot his way out of. Corin was always the more diplomatic of the two. Better at emotions. Better at talking to people. How was Din supposed to do this alone?

He keeps his burning eyes forward, focusing on the lights of hyperspace. They should be dropping out soon, and then he’d have to deal with Liita’s wrath when she saw the damage done to the ship. They would be planet side for days probably. Hopefully not. The empire was on their tail and they needed to keep moving. 

Maybe there he could get some sleep. It had been days, granted he’d gone longer without it. The weight of it pulls at the Mandalorian’s eyes. He wants to just fall asleep right here in the cockpit but he can’t. Not with CT-113 right behind him. 

The abrupt stop out of hyperspace jerks Din back to full awareness. He’s thankful for the shock to his system. Whatever exhaustion he’d been feeling was long gone. 

Din jumps on the comms. “Are you  _ trying _ to break my ship?” Yes, he’ll admit, he’s more irritable than usual. 

Liita answers with a barked laugh, not noticing, or rather, not caring about the Mandalorian’s tone. “There’s not much ship left to break! Be thankful you’re alive at all.”

Din grumbles but doesn’t respond. He knows if he does, the petty argument will only continue. Liita always has to have the last word. 

Landing is the trickiest part of the whole ordeal. The  _ Crest _ is completely offline, so the landing gear and stabilizing thrusters are no help. The tow rope will only be able to do so much and it’s very likely their crash landing will be far from elegant. 

Din turns to the kid and then to CT-113. “Take him downstairs to his room. This isn’t going to be pretty,” Din says, motioning with his helmet to the ladder. 

CT-113 frowns and then nods. There’s an argument in his eyes. Corin would’ve made an objection to Din staying in the cockpit, but CT-113 has been trained not to question orders; he leaves in silence. 

Din is left alone. 

The crash landing doesn’t turn out so bad with Liita using the tow rope to help slow him down. Din can hear the landing gear snap off entirely, and his irritation grows with every shake of turbulence. With all the grace of a dying Bantha, they successfully crash land less than a mile out from Liita’s homestead. 

It’s late afternoon verging towards evening on the planet. If they want any hope of getting in before nightfall, they needed to unpack quickly. Din runs a hand over the  _ Crest’s  _ dashboard. The poor ship had taken quite a beating in the last day. He just hopes it can still be fixed. 

Din climbs down the ladder and into the main cargo space where the child and CT-113 were recollecting themselves from the crash. Din walks over and runs a gloved finger across the child’s ear, earning him a small coo. “You alright, Ad’ika?” 

The child smiles at the familiar nickname and reaches up for his father. CT-113 carefully lifts the child for Din to take. “Thank you,” Din says, voice tight. “For watching him.”

CT-113 just blinks, not quite knowing how to respond. It’s an all too familiar expression. Corin had always struggled with accepting compliments, or receiving thanks for following orders. It had taken months for Corin to finally realize they were equals. 

“Can you help me unload?” Din asks, careful not to phrase it like an order. If he wants CT-113 to stop acting like a soldier, then he needs to stop acting like a commanding officer. Which is hard to do when every interaction feels like a knife to the gut. 

CT-113 nods and stands to follow Din to one of the storage closets. There wasn’t much to bring with them. After Corin had been… taken, Din and the child had spent more and more time on the ship searching for him. Their already meager belongings had dwindled even further as the child left a blanket or toy on a planet, or as things were lost in the move from place to place. There was only one box labelled Corin, another for the baby, and another for Din himself. 

Balancing the child on his hip, Din set the other two boxes aside and pulled Corin’s from the shelf. The only thing significant in it, aside from his favorite rations, were spare clothes. It wasn’t much, but at least it wasn’t the blacksuit CT-113 was currently wearing. 

Din grabs a handful of the clothing and pulls it out to inspect. There’s an old jacket. It’s soft leather with a rip near the forearm from a close call in a knife fight. Din rubs his thumb over the collar, and swallows around the lump in his throat. He hasn’t dared open the box since he packed it up months ago. He tosses the jacket, rougher than intended, to CT-113. 

“Put that on.” Din grabs for the pants folded neatly at the bottom of the box and hands them over. “And the jeans too.” He reseals the container, stacking it on top of the others. “Not everyone will take you being a stormtrooper as well as I did.”

CT-113 glances down at himself and then back up to Din. He nods and straightens his back. “Yes, sir.” and then runs off to change. 

Din watches him go with an ache under his chestplate. The child on his hip whines and reaches out to the door CT-113 had left through. “Yeah kid, I miss him too.”

-

The clothes fit CT-113 perfectly. They must’ve been his once upon a time. The jacket hugged his shoulders but didn’t restrict his motion. The jeans were well worn, soft, and flexible. CT-113 thumbs over the tear on the jacket forearm. It was a perfect match for the thin scar underneath. 

Chills run down his spine and deja-vu hits him again. This is his jacket. These are his jeans. He knows if he flips up the collar he’ll find the name Corin written with ink in his handwriting. He takes a deep breath, trying to settle himself. It’s disorienting. To find proof of a life he doesn’t remember. He’s closer than ever to finding out the truth about himself. If only he could get the Mandalorian to say more than two words at a time. 

Heading back out into the cabin, he finds the Mandalorian has already started loading their necessities into a hovercart. CT-113 doesn’t need to be told to start helping. There isn’t much they have to unload. After a few trips, CT-113 bends down to grab the last box, but he’s stopped by a hand on his chest.

“Let him help,” The Mandalorian says, motioning with his hand to where the child is standing next to the box that is bigger than he is. CT-113 laughs, thinking the hunter is joking. “Go on, Ad’ika.” His laughter is cut short when he realizes the Mandalorian is completely serious. 

The child stretches out a hand and frowns, his eyes squinting in concentration. CT-113’s breath catches in his throat when the box actually starts to levitate. Rocking from side to side it rises from the scarred earth. It hovers for a second before moving horizontally in the air to float over the cart. The child’s hand moves with the motion. He suddenly drops his hand and the box tumbles over in the cart. CT-113 hopes there was nothing breakable in there. 

The Mandalorian praises the child in his native language, a smile in his voice. He crouches down to gently ruffle the kid’s hair. CT-113 can see the pride in the child’s face. He feels like he’s interrupting. CT-113 takes a step back to let them have their moment, but the child reaches out for him with an insistent fuss. Giving in and kneeling down, CT-113 smiles and tugs at the kid’s ear. “Yes, I see you. Good job, kiddo.” 

The Mandalorian’s helmet snaps over to look at him. CT-113 swallows and ducks his head. He’s not sure what he’s done wrong, but it can’t be good. Of course bad luck insured that he got stuck with the grouchiest person in the galaxy. 

-

They make their way towards the homestead. CT-113 had no idea where they were going, or who this Liita person was, but the red sand and setting suns are annoying enough to keep his focus away from the questions he wanted to ask. 

The walk is made easier by the hovercart. It follows behind the Mandalorian’s lead with CT-113 taking up the rear. It’s getting darker by the minute and the flickering light on the horizon isn’t getting closer fast enough. CT-113 hears the sounds of alien animals and desert predators. He grabs the child from the cart and leaves the back of the caravan to walk beside the Mandalorian, his free hand on the grip of his E-11 blaster. 

“You know this place?” CT-113 asks, trying his best to keep his voice steady. He hikes the child up a little higher on his hip.

The hunter turns his helmet to glance at him. “Barely,” he answers honestly. “But Liita’s hutch isn’t much farther.”

CT-113 nods and takes a wide look around him. He doesn’t see any danger, but bad luck had a funny way of following him. He notices the Mandalorian pick up the pace a bit. Even the child seems put-off by the howling. It makes a small frightened sound and ducks its head into CT-113’s shoulder. The hunter swings the pulse rifle off his back and keeps it aimed at the growing dark.

They must be less than a quarter mile from the hut when CT-113 sees the glowing green eyes from the rocks. He pushes the Mandalorian out of the way just as the animal jumps out. It hisses, teeth bared. It’s dead before CT-113 even had time to register what it was. The child yelps at the sound of blaster fire.

“Let’s go,” the hunter says, an insistent hand on CT-113’s arm. CT-113 nods, pulling his eyes away from the carcass, and picking up the pace. He puts a reassuring hand on the child’s back. 

They make it to the house without further incident. Both the hunter and the stormtrooper had seen several more pairs of eyes, but none of them moved to attack. They stayed far away from the fire that burned in the pit in front of the shack. Now that they were closer, CT-113 could see now it was actually more than just one house. The homestead had several buildings in a crooked semi-circle: a main house, a silo, and a large barn that probably functioned as a workshop. 

When they step into the ring of light, the Mandalorian gives a small sigh of relief and slings the rifle behind him. A female Zeltron, who CT-113 assumed to be Liita, was waiting for them on the porch. 

“Took you two long enough!” She hollers, stepping down and moving past them to inspect the contents of the cart. 

CT-113 sees the Mandalorian scowl. He smiles to himself and watches the two bicker. 

“Wouldn’t have taken so long if we had a speeder. Shame we don’t know anyone with one,” The Mandalorian says pointedly. He glares a whole in the back of her head.

“Yes,” Liita says with complete apathy. “It is a shame.” She turns around to look at the Mandalorian and unabashedly sizes him up. She nods, finding whatever she was looking for to her satisfaction, and then turns to CT-113. 

He shifts his stance, ready for whatever she might do. She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know how you put up with him, Corin.” 

She knew who he was? Had they met before? CT-113 forgets his apprehension and goes to ask questions when the Mandalorian puts a hard hand on his shoulder. CT-113 keeps his mouth shut, message clearly received. He’d talk to her later.

“Thank you for picking us up,” The Mandalorian says, clearly ending the conversation. “I owe you one.” He steers CT-113 and the child in the direction of the silo. 

“You  _ already _ owe me one.” Litta laughs and the Mandalorian just shakes his head. His irritation is betrayed by the fondness in the gesture. The two argued like cats and dogs. CT-113 wondered at the history there. More importantly, he wanted to know what Liita could tell him about his own history. If the Mandalorian was unwilling to talk, maybe she would.

Once inside the silo, CT-113 sees that it’s been turned into a small guest room. Granted it’s filthy and obviously being used for storage, but there is a bed and crib against one of the walls. The dust and sand is easily shaken from the blankets. 

Just looking at the bed reminds CT-113 of the weight in his bones. He suddenly feels very tired. The exhaustion from the day nips at his heels as he puts the child down in the crib. He turns to leave, giving the bed to the Mandalorian, and goes off to find a spare blanket for the floor. 

He doesn’t make it far before the hunter grabs at his wrist. “Where are you going?” The T-visor just stares at him. 

CT-113 doesn’t have it in him to argue right now. “To find a blanket,” he motions to the rotting wood floorboards. “For the floor.”

There is a sharp frustrated sound from behind the helmet. “Take the bed, Corin.” There’s no room for negotiation. “I’ll take first watch.” 

CT-113 nods and falls on the bed. He’s asleep before he hears the hunter leave or mutter soft words in Mando’a. He’s asleep before he can feel the hand brush through his hair.

-

The world warps around him. Only the important things are in focus. He knows flames are licking up the walls, peeling away at the paint, scorching his skin. Yet he has no clue where the walls actually are. They’re distant from him, removed by another layer of reality. 

The fire is real. The fire burns and destroys and fills his vision with flame and smoke until the only thing he can see is orange. Corin runs. He doesn’t know where. He doesn’t feel his feet or the floor or his arms, but he does feel the smoke in his lungs. The desperation in each heavy breath. He feels how the tar chokes him and it feels like his life is slipping farther from him with every gasp. 

He runs through a maze with walls made of fire. There is no entrance or exit. There is a door. Blank and untouched by the fire. It is stark black and wreathed in heat. It stands like a beacon and Corin is helpless against the call. He runs to it, reaching out yet never feeling his hands connect with the knob. He knows the door opens. He knows he walks through it. He doesn’t see any of it happen. 

He feels disconnected from life happening around him. Nothing is really happening yet the emotions are as intense and real as anything he’s ever experienced. The panic and smoke threaten to choke him and for a moment he truly feels a hand around his throat and fingers pressing into his windpipe. 

Corin clutches at the hand on his neck only to find that nothing is there. His nails dig in anyway. And it’s his own fingers now that tear at his throat. He still can’t breathe. 

He’s away from the fire and instead he’s walked through the door into something much much worse. 

He hears a voice calling for him. Screaming out. It’s a child. A mind brushes against his own and latches on. Corin is defenseless to fight out against something he can’t see. 

A figure appears from the surroundings. Corin doesn’t know where he’s at or where the figure appeared from but it’s here now. It hovers over him, reaching out but not touching him. Corin tried to speak, tries to breathe, tries to call out for help. 

He can’t. 

The voices scream for him. The fire burns. The outstretched hand clenched into a fist.

-

CT-113 jerks awake with a scream. He kicks out of the blanket, hands coming up to his throat. “Let me go!” 

Something is pressing down against his shoulders and he fights against it. “Let me go!” He kicks out again and his foot hits something hard. It doesn’t give but CT-113’s foot does. The pain comes back to him, real and sharp. His eyes fling open and he’s greeted with the sight of the Mandalorian holding him down against the bed. The visor is focused on his eyes. 

“You’re safe,” the Mandalorian says. His voice is soft and steady. The words are a life line and CT-113 grabs onto it with the last bit of strength that he has. “You’re safe. You’re home. With me. Everything's alright.”

CT-113 searches the helmet for any bit of reassurance. He never knew a mask could convey so much emotion. The hands still pin him down but CT-113 finds the pressure grounding. He needs anything to keep him steady. 

He reaches a hand up to the wrist holding him down. his thumb runs over the exposed skin there. It’s warm and the heat is completely different from the melting fire that still licks at his skin. “Don’t let them find me. Please. I can’t go back.”

This time when the Mandalorian presses his helmet against CT-113’s forehead, he doesn’t pull away. He leans into it. 

He doesn’t know why he does. He knows he’s still scared of the Mandalorian but it feels  _ right _ . He feels  _ safe.  _ Like nothing could hurt him as long as they stayed together. CT-113 knows this moment because there have been dozens of others just like it. They’ve shared this intimacy a thousand times in a thousand different life times. CT-113 knows he’s loved the Mandalorian before even if he doesn’t remember it. 

When the Mandalorian pulls back CT-113 can’t help how he leans up, letting the touch linger for half a moment more. A hand moves from his shoulder to card through his hair. It’s close cropped to his skull and there’s not much to brush through. CT-113 appreciates the gesture anyway.

“Nightmare?” The Mandalorian asks gently once CT-113 has visibly calmed down. 

CT-113 shrugs. “I hope that’s all it was.” If there was a fire, he’s glad he doesn’t remember it. 

He adjusts himself so that he’s sitting up completely. His legs dangle off the bed and he supports his weight with his elbows on his knees. The blankets lay in a disgruntled heap behind him. It takes a while for him to speak and even as the words leave his mouth he’s not sure why he says them. 

“They took so much from me. I don’t know what it is, but it feels like you.” CT-113 glances over at the Mandalorian. For a moment the two just stare at each other. 

The masked man finally breaks the silence. “You were gone for ten months. There was fire. I took the kid and ran. I left you behind. It’s my fault.” There’s a finality to his words. As though he was speaking facts. There was no negating his guilt. 

CT-113 reaches out and places a hand on the Mandalorian’s. “You did what you had to do.” 

The Mandalorian twists his hand so that he’s holding CT-113’s. He squeezes it once and then drops it as he moves to stand. “You should get some more sleep.”

CT-113 shakes his head. “I can’t. Let me take watch.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t argue; he just moves to the foot of the bed and sits, still fully suited. CT-113 gets the message and stands up. It’s early, still dark and will be for hours. He stretches, yawns, and then leaves the room so the Mandalorian can rest. 

CT-113 sets up watch outside their door. The pulse rifle rests against the wall. He doesn’t think the Mandalorian would take well to seeing CT-113 with it, but the sounds of the night force his hand. He reaches for the rifle and then sets it across his knees as he sits on the steps. The rest of the night passes with eerie howls and the rustle of wind-blown sand. 

\-------------

_ Twelve Months Earlier _

  
  


_ Combing through Gideon’s logs had become almost an obsession for Jax. He understood now why the crazy Moff had become so invested. The Child. Everything revolved around The Child.  _

_ In his spare moments, Jax had read nearly every single one of the data entries. He poured over the important ones again and again trying to find some clue as to where they might be now. The closest thing he got to a lead was the mention of a rogue stormtrooper. CT-113, who called himself Corin. _

_ The call sign seemed vaguely familiar to Jax, but then again, he was a stormtrooper himself once. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that they might have met. He definitely knew the Valentis family.  _

_ Jax sat for a moment. The quiet of the records room gave him space to think. He knew CT-113 was the key to the child but finding him was the issue. With two years behind them, the trio could be anywhere in the galaxy. It’s even possible they went their separate ways after Gideon died and the trooper’s extra help was no longer needed. It would be impossible to find him. It’s not exactly like they put a microchip on every expendable trooper. _

_ Jax whipped his head up. CT-113 wasn’t a normal trooper though, was he? He was a snow trooper. Those bastards got lost all the time in the blizzards and often their suits homing beacon would malfunction from the cold and wet. To prevent loss of slightly more valuable troops, the empire had outfitted most of them with an implant. Unless CT-113 had remembered to cut it out, and likely he hadn’t, Jax would have his exact location.  _

_ The catch, there was always a catch, was that those chips had a fairly small radius, only two systems wide. But if Jax got lucky, and he always did, he’d have the child in his arms before the next moon.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No promises on when the next chapter will be posted since it completely depends on the whims of my professors and their impulse to give or not to give homework. On the bright side, I have a real schedule now so I can promise it won't be two more weeks!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CT-113 finds a name. Information drops like a bomb. Boundaries are broken and CT-113 finds himself wondering where exactly he stands. Jax finds what he's looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kinda lied about the whole two week thing. My bad. Also bad news is that I've got three midterms this week so it'll be another few days before I can even start writing again. 
> 
> Again, thanks for all y'alls support and patience! This fic was originally only going to be about 10k words and it's spiraled to be double that. We're about 75% of the way there... hopefully. 
> 
> Shout out to Cacodaemonia for being my beta! She's an amazing artist and has the best fan art for this pairing. Go check her out!! 
> 
> Also TW at the end of the chapter for violence. It starts at the italic flashback if you want to skip that part there will be a non-graphic summary at the end.

CT-113 sits in the dark with only his thoughts for company. It’s a  _ long _ night. The howls of desert wolves and the chittering of nocturnal prey echo through the valley. 

It’s good luck, CT-113 thinks, that whatever fuel Liita uses for the firepit seems to never run cold. The animals stay away from the flames. He wouldn’t even need to keep watch if it weren’t for his own nerves and worry. 

The fire dances and the light it provides moves with it. The shadows cast by the flickering light morph into visions of siths and death troopers. 

CT-113 turns his gaze away from the perimeter and back to the house. It sits low and quiet as with everything else in the settlement. The barn is similar in shape to the house, square and wide, the roof pitched flat to keep the sand off rather than rain. The silo, with the porch he’s sitting on, is almost wider than it is tall. No sound can be heard coming from inside. 

All is quiet. Except for the fire. The fuel, whatever it might be, crackles and pops with every burst of red sparks. CT-113 can’t handle looking at it for longer than a cursory glance. He can feel the heat it gives off against his bare cheek even from where he sits on the porch steps. The sounds and the sight makes his head hurt. He blames the headache and the phantom tightness in his throat on the smoke.

There’s nothing to do now except keep an unnecessary look-out. CT-113 picks at the torn edge on his leather jacket.

The Empire had told him he was doing the most important thing he could do with his life: living in service to the Empire. Looking back it seems so obvious that it had all been propaganda but in the moment, CT-113 had believed them. 

That mopping floors was the most important thing he could’ve been doing. 

He sighs and brushes a hand through his short cropped hair. He can’t help but feel like something is missing there too. Everywhere he goes there’s a gap, a reconditioned memory, an off feeling. 

Like with the Mandalorian and the child. CT-113 was still missing the big picture. Sure, the Mandalorian knew him before, but why come chasing after him? Why bother using the kid to track him halfway across the galaxy? Surely, he wasn’t important enough to warrant such a search. 

The pieces didn’t quite fit together and CT-113 knew it was because there was still a lot the Mandalorian wasn’t telling him. 

A rustle in the dark gets CT-113’s attention but it turns out to be nothing more than a dusty red rodent. It darts between the gaps of the porch wood. 

_ At least you’ve got a chance to run _ , CT-113 thinks. He still can’t tell if it’s good or bad luck that he ended up here with the Mandalorian. Maybe a bit of both. Either way, they’re stranded with no way off their dust ball until Liita decides to fix the ship. 

They’re sitting ducks for the hunting Empire. CT-113 knows better than any of them that it won’t take long for them to catch up. If a sith is on the mission, their days are extremely limited. 

-

Liita finds CT-113 early the next morning. Sometime in the night he had fallen into a light sleep against a wooden pillar. It had been eaten away by the constant barrage of sand, but held true to the weight of the awning and the addition of CT-113’s shoulder. 

“Morning Corin,” she greets, kicking at the pillar to wake him up. 

CT-113 leaps to his feet and salutes out of old habit. “I’m up! Reporting for duty!” The pulse rifle clatters to the sand as it tumbles from its resting place on his thighs. CT-113 tries to catch it and fails. He’s rewarded with a sharp jab to his arm from the prongs at the end. 

Liita watches the fumbling display with wariness. When CT-113 regains his composure he drops his salute and relaxes his shoulders. He wasn’t on an Imperial base any longer. He takes a quick look around. Nothing has changed except the shift from night to dawn. 

Liita stands stiffly in front of him, still not saying a thing. CT-113 wonders what he did wrong. Did he over sleep? Was he not supposed to sit on the porch? Did she-

“What’s wrong with you?” Liita says bluntly, never one to beat around the bush. 

CT-113 chuckles a little nervously. “I don’t know what you-“

Liita cuts him off with a raised hand. “Cut the shit,” she states, lips going thin. “What happened to you?”

CT-113 decides he might as well tell her now. The hunter had stopped him the night before, but that was also likely due to exhaustion rather than secrecy. If the Mandalorian had really wanted to keep CT-113’s ailment quiet, he would’ve told him. 

Besides, Liita was bound to find out eventually. Right?

CT-113 sighs and retakes his seat on the porch. His stiff knees and back protest at the motion but he doesn’t so much as wince at the feeling of sore muscles. “Well,” he begins. “I don’t remember.”

Liita barks a laugh out of disbelief, “You don’t remember what’s got you all messed up? Are you and Mando fighting?” She probes. 

Through the layers of sarcasm and joking tone, CT-113 can hear the real concern in her voice and knows she actually cared for his safety. He just shakes his head. “No I- I don’t remember,” CT-113 pauses, meeting her eyes. “Anything.” He motions with a hand towards his temple. “Earliest memory is being a trooper eight months ago. The Mandalorian tracked me down three, maybe four days ago. That’s all I know.”

The admission hangs in the air for a moment. Liita is too stunned by the information to respond at first. 

“You don’t remember anything?” Liita asks. 

CT-113 shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. “I didn’t even know my own name until the Mandalorian told me.” 

“Oh,” Liita stands up a little straighter, eyeing him warily. “You probably don’t want to be here then,” her eyes flick down to the rifle in his hands, “do you?” Tension builds between them. 

CT-113 isn’t stupid. He knows what she’s insinuating. And honestly, he can’t blame her. They both know what stormtroopers are known for, what they’re capable of. 

His grip tightens on the rifle, ready to defend himself if necessary. He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, least of all the kid. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on, okay?” CT-113 says with trepidation. He remembers the Mandalorian’s warning about those who had no love lost for the Empire. “I don’t want any trouble.” 

Liita hand inches down towards her blaster, only responding to the way CT-113 is gripping the rifle like a lifeline. “I’m sure you don’t.”

“ _ Cin Vhetin,” _ a voice says from behind them. Liita looks up, and CT-113 whips around to see the Mandalorian standing in the doorway. “Everyone deserves a second chance. A blank slate.”

Liita snorts. “ _ Literally. _ ” Her posture drops into something a little more familiar now that the Mandalorian is around. Her hand stays on her holster. 

CT-113 stands and hands the hunter his rifle. He’s careful not to bump shoulders as he passes into the bedroom. The child is still asleep and CT-113 is grateful. He might be able to get a few more hours of sleep. The last thing he wants is to intrude where he’s not wanted. At least he can’t step on any toes while he’s asleep. 

The bed is still warm from where the Mandalorian slept. CT-113 drifts into a light dreamless rest.

-

The Child cries not an hour after CT-113 had settled. He rubs at his eyes and yawns, looking over at the little green terror that smiles and burbles from the crib. The child’s ears flick up and down, hands reaching out. 

“Someone is happy this morning,” CT-113 says. He pushes himself up and hauls the kid out of the crib. “Time to start the day, huh?” 

The kid tangles his hand into the collar of CT-113’s worn blue shirt. His big brown eyes blink adorably. CT-113 can’t help the smile that breaks across his face. 

CT-113 floats. Liita is off working on the ship, and the Mandalorian runs patrol. To pass the time CT-113 keeps himself busy. There’s not much to do, but he wants to be helpful. He takes the child, in a makeshift sling, down to the  _ Crest _ . CT-113 offers his help, and Liita waves him off. She insists that she has it all handled. 

After a few minutes of standing at the foot of the crest, Liita making it clear that he’s “in the way,” CT-113 decides to make the long trek all the way back to the settlement. The child doesn’t seem to mind. It chews on the fabric of the sling, occasionally burbling an incomprehensible question up at CT-113 who just nods and smiles back.

The day isn’t too hot and the walk through the sand actually serves to settle CT-113’s nerves. Once they make it back to the hut, he grabs food for the kid, sweeps the floors, moves boxes. He’s constantly working yet not doing anything of importance. He would clean his blaster, but it was obvious how uncomfortable the other two were whenever he was around a weapon. He would polish his armor, but he doesn’t have any.

Once he’s done everything that could be done, CT-113 sits with a sigh next to the child who looks up and tilts his head in question. A silent “what now?” It’s the same question CT-113 has been asking himself since he woke up on the  _ Crest _ . 

The Mandalorian still hasn’t returned. The need to make himself useful nags at the back of CT-113’s mind. He hasn’t done enough. He should be helping with the ship, or feeding the livestock, or washing dishes.  _ Anything _ to make himself needed. 

The restless energy churns in the pit of his stomach. CT-113 decides to take a walk. The child probably needed to stretch his legs anyway. “Let’s go see what the animals are up to.” CT-113 holds out a hand to the kid. 

Their pace is slow. It takes them nearly an hour to circle the settlement, livestock pens and all. But what kept them up wasn’t the child’s short legs or small strides, it was his eagerness to investigate everything. Even the smallest stone was fascinating to the little guy. CT-113 was perfectly content to watch the kid look at every grain of sand as long as he wasn’t getting into trouble. If nothing else, CT-113 was good at babysitting. At least he could be useful in that way. 

-

By the time that the Mandalorian returns, CT-113 has found himself another chore to do. The child is fast asleep in a mid-afternoon nap. The walk having taken all his energy. But CT-113 wouldn’t let himself rest as long as there was something for him to do. 

After washing out the water troughs and replacing it with fresh water from the pump, and wiping down every surface in the main kitchen, and repairing the little gap in the fence, and sweeping sand out of the barn, CT-113 found himself collecting eggs from the small flock of Hbuuga that Liita kept in a pen near the house. 

“What are you doing?” The Mandalorian asks. His voice isn’t harsh, just unexpected. It causes CT-113 to jump. The bucket slips from his fingers. The eggs crash to the ground and nearly half of them shatter. They roll out over the red sand and gather dust on the slimy shells. 

“Sorry!” CT-113 yelps and leaps into action, gathering as many of the intact eggs as he can. “I’m sorry!” he says again. The bucket is covered in yoke, but he tries his best to repair the situation before the hunter gets mad. If he had just been paying more attention, the Mandalorian wouldn’t have startled him. If he had had a better grip on the handle. If he had-

“Corin.” 

CT-113 flinches away from the hand on his shoulder. He knew his punishment was just around the corner. He had made a mistake and the Mandalorian would realize what an inconvenience it is to have him around. 

The hand draws back but the hunter crouches down to CT-113’s level. “Corin, it’s okay,” the Mandalorian says. “They’re just eggs.” Gloved hands reach out to take the bucket from CT-113’s trembling fingers. He didn’t even realize he was shaking until he saw how steady the hunter seemed by comparison. 

“I’m sorry,” CT-113 says once more because he doesn’t know what else to say. Even as he kneels on the ground, he keeps his back straight and his eyes down. 

A hand reaches out for his shoulder again. CT-113 keeps his head down until the hand slides up under his chin and forces him to look up. His eyes search the hunter for any hint of anger, and he finds none. Food was precious in the desert. CT-113 had just broken a days worth of eggs and the Mandalorian was really going to let him off the hook for it?

“It’s alright. They’ll lay more. We have plenty of rations inside,” the Mandalorian says and then stands, holding out a hand for CT-113. He pulls CT-113 to his feet. The hunter claps a hand over his bicep. “You’re not going to be punished for breaking eggs, Corin,” the hunter says gently, like he knows exactly what is running through CT-113’s head. 

CT-113 wants to believe him. Wants to believe he’s safe, that he won’t be dropped off as soon as the  _ Crest  _ is up and running again. He wants to hope for more.

The hand on his bicep comes up to cup CT-113’s cheek. He couldn’t help but lean into the contact, the soft leather glove warm against his skin. Their eyes meet through the tinted visor. “You’re safe with us,” the Mandalorian says. CT-113 is finally beginning to believe him. Any fear he may have been hanging on to disappears as the knot in his stomach begins to unwind. 

The Mandalorian drops the bucket but the sound of it hitting the ground goes unnoticed. He puts his hand on the other side of CT-113’s face. Thumb running across his cheek bone. Long fingers secured on the back of CT-113’s neck. 

“You belong here, Corin.” The hunter leans forward, helmet coming to rest gently on CT-113’s forehead. “No matter what they told you, or what you remember. You belong here with me and the child.”

CT-113 feels his eyes burn. There’s a lump in his throat and an ache in his chest. He nods, eyes closed, against the cool metal. He knows. He knows, soul deep, that this is where he was always meant to be. 

CT-113, Corin, pulls back. He takes a deep breath and recollects himself. “Thank you.” He means so much more and he only hopes the Mandalorian can hear what he doesn’t say. 

-

Corin and the Mandalorian spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning the neglected weapons that Liita keeps under the kitchen floor boards. Most of them are just for trade. Scavenged from a fallen soldier or crashed ship. Corin takes the weapons of imperial make, familiar with the disassembly and tedious cleaning, while the hunter takes the modified or nonstandard blasters. 

The Child soon wakes from his nap. He keeps them company, quietly playing with the scattered parts. Corin watches, worried he’ll choke, but he never does. The hunter hums as he works. It must be a familiar tune because the child’s ears perk when he recognizes it. He babbles along with words he can’t say. Corin smiles and tugs at a green ear that is much too big for the kid’s body. 

The whole scene is tooth-achingly sweet. It’s familiar. It’s easy. Corin thanks his lucky stars that he’s been allowed this peace, no matter how short it will last. 

The careful peace he has found with the Mandalorian no longer feels like it’s balanced on the edge of a knife. It’s a huge change to take in so quickly, but Corin rolls with the punches as well as he can. Just days ago he had been nothing more than a normal stormtrooper. Lost. Looking for something he knew he was missing.

Now that he found it, it’s not as hard as he expected to turn his back on everything he once knew. Corin has something to live for, to fight for. He’ll stay with them for as long as they’ll have him. 

-

“Alright I’m  _ done _ .” Liita announces as she bangs her way into the house later that evening. Corin and the Mandalorian have nearly finished with the weapons. The child is sitting between them drawing with a spare bit of charcoal Corin had found in the kitchen. 

“You finished?“ the Mandalorian asks. “Already?”

“I may be fast, but I’m not  _ that _ fast.” Liita barely spares them as passing glance as she brushes by and starts to dig through one of her cabinets. “I’m done for the day. What’s for dinner you three?” She calls, continuing her search through the kitchen. 

The Mandalorian sighs and sets aside the weapon he’s working on. He stands to go help fix dinner. Corin is left alone in the living room with the kid. He glances down at where the child is coloring. It’s a bunch of scribbles, but if Corin squints, he thinks he can see the shape of a tree. 

Dinner is made, served, and eaten. Three plates and a fourth only as a courtesy for the Mandalorian. Corin helps feed the baby in between bites of his own food. He catches Liita and the Mandalorian staring at him more than once. He tries to ignore them. 

The conversation flows easily enough. Liita and the Mandalorian do most of the talking. For a man of few words, the hunter has little issue opening up to her. Corin wonders if there is any history there, but the easy exchange of words doesn’t seem hindered by the awkwardness of past romance. 

They talk about the ship, and how it got so damaged. They talk about Liita, how she’s been, and what she’s been doing the last few months. They talk about the kid, how he’s learned a few words, how he hasn’t grown at all. They do  _ not _ talk about Corin, or his ailment. 

It doesn’t take long after the kid is fed for him to start yawning. Full and content, it’s time to go to bed. The Mandalorian quietly excuses himself. He carefully picks up the child, and the plate of food, and leaves for the silo.

A tense awkward silence follows in his wake. Liita doesn’t trust Corin, that much is obvious. The air is heavy. Corin keeps his eyes on his empty plate and waits for her to break the tension. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing or make the wrong move. He’s a guest here. Allowed to stay only because of her kindness. Her kindness which wore thin at the mention of his recent past.

After a minute of strained silence, Liita stands. “I need a drink.” She glances over to Corin. “And so do you, trooper.”

Corin looks down at himself. “Me? Why? I’m fine, really I-“

“Because we’re going to talk,” Liita says pointedly. Corin isn’t sure what to expect from her, and he’s not quite sure he wants to find out. Too late to back out now. She leaves for the kitchen and returns not a minute later.

Corin sets aside his plate. A large mug is set down in front of him. It doesn’t smell horrible, not too strong or sweet. He takes a cautious sip. It’s definitely not the worst thing he’s ever tasted. 

He doesn’t remember ever drinking alcohol before, though he knew what it did to people. He once caught a captain stumbling back to his room, reeking of alderaanian wine, yelling about his superiors. Corin had stayed far away from that hallway. 

Liita sits across from him and throws her feet up onto the lip of the table. 

“So,” she begins, “What do you remember?”

Corin swallows, mouth horribly dry. He takes another gulp of the homebrew ale. “Not much,” he admits, though that was a given. “I remember… a star cruiser. Endless patrols. Constantly being moved from station to station.” Another sip. “I didn’t even know anything was wrong until I saw my file.”

Liita frowns, downing her own ale. “You didn’t know?” She tilts her head and her dark hair falls from her shoulder. “How could you not know?”

Corin shakes his head. “Why would I?” He frowns, trying to describe the feeling to her. “I knew  _ something _ was off because I didn’t know where my scars came from or my childhood like the other troopers could,” he says, and then shrugs because that wasn’t quite right either. “It feels like a dream. Like when you’re suddenly in a new place, and you don’t remember how you got there, you just  _ are _ . So you don’t question it.”

Liita hums, still not quite getting it. Corin knows she never will unless she experiences it for herself. He hopes she never does.

Corin goes to take a long drink from his mug and suddenly finds it empty. He doesn’t remember drinking it all. He holds out the mug to Liita in a silent question for more. She smiles wickedly and rushes to the kitchen to refill it. When she returns, they move to the living room.

They talk about the Mandalorian for a while, about how he nearly died from infection on that very table. Liita tells him embarrassing stories of the Mandalorian not knowing how to spoon feed the child, and face planting in the sand after tripping on a rock because the peripheral vision in the helmet is  _ shit.  _ Corin laughs so hard he snorts. His stomach hurts from it all.

During her stories, they drink. And drink. And drink. Sometime in the middle, the Mandalorian returns. Corin enthusiastically waves hello and pats the couch cushion beside him for the hunter to sit. He declines, much to Corin’s disappointment, and takes up residence in a chair on the opposite side of the room. 

The hunter busies himself by cleaning his armor. Corin can’t help but watch as each piece is carefully removed and meticulously polished. It’s obviously well taken care of. Corin wonders how he had managed to gather so much beskar in the first place.

Liita regains Corin’s attention with a snap in front of his face. It’s so startling he nearly falls off the couch. Her eyes are piercing. Corin can’t look away. “Did you kill for them?” 

The question makes him uncomfortable. Corin doesn’t want to answer but the word slips from his mouth anyway. “Yes.” 

“Innocents?” 

It dawns on Corin that this is an interrogation.

“No.” And it’s the truth. He hadn’t hurt anyone who wasn’t a criminal. Although it was the Empire that decided who was and wasn’t a criminal. Maybe he had killed innocent people. “I don’t know.” The world sways. Corin keeps talking because he can’t seem to stop himself. “I did what I had to.”

“Would you still?” Liita leans forward, eyes clear and sober. 

“Still what?” Corin asks, not quite remembering her first question. His mouth feels dry. He can’t quite feel his legs.

“Still kill for them? Still blindly follow their orders?”

Corin has to think about that question for longer than he’d like to admit. He looks over at the Mandalorian who has gone still, watching them, listening. “No,” Corin says, still looking at the hunter. “No, I wouldn’t”

Satisfied with his answer, Liita stands and grabs the empty mug. Where had it gone? Corin stares after her with a pout.

The topic shifts to something lighter when Liita returns. “Do you remember the Child?”

Corin shakes his head and reaches out to take the mug from her outstretched hand. “He remembers me though.”

Liita snorts, “Well I hope so. Kids don’t easily forget their parents.”

Corin frowns into mug. “Parents?” He asks. What was that supposed to mean?

“Yes?” Liita is confused by his confusion. She turns to the Mandalorian. “You haven’t told him?”

Corin looks up. “Told me what?” It takes him a minute to process it all, brain addled by the alcohol. 

And then it clicks.

He’s the one in the drawings, the figure with dark hair and blue eyes. He’s the kids other parent. That’s why the kid was never scared of him. That’s why the Mando tracked him down and saved him. That’s why the kid knew where he was. That’s why he feels the connection that he does. They were family. They were  _ married. _

Corin abruptly stands up. “I need some air _. _ ” 

Ale sloshes from the mug when he sets it down in his haste for the door. He feels like he can’t breathe. He trips over his own feet and catches himself with a hand against the wall. Corin stumbles out into the brisk night air.

He slumps over on the porch and sits with his feet hanging off the edge. He stares out into the dark, fists clenched by his side. It doesn’t take long for the Mandalorian to appear next to him. 

“Corin.” The Mandalorian reaches out, fingers brushing against Corin’s shoulder. His touch as soft as his voice. “Talk to me.”

Corin whips around, emotions rolling through him and thrumming up and down his spine. “No, Mando, I want the truth.” Corin knows his voice is shaking. Knows he’s way out of line. Knows that the Mandalorian could kill him at any moment. “What haven’t you told me?”

The Mandalorian lets his hand drop and lets out a bone deep sigh. He sits on the edge of the porch next to Corin, elbows braced on his knees, gloved hands hanging uselessly. “The truth?” One hand comes up to rub over the crown of his helmet, brushing through hair that isn’t there. The T-visor turns to face Corin. “I almost killed you. You were just a snow trooper. But you lied to your squad when you could’ve just as easily had me and the kid captured,” 

The nostalgic twist of the Mandalorian's words pulls the anger from Corin’s frame. The fight leaves him. Their thighs are touching and Corin can feel the body heat warm his entire leg. Without the armor, the hunter looks a lot less intimidating. The helmet seems a little out of place, and Corin has a knee jerk reaction to lift it off. 

His instinct is to place a soft kiss on the Mandalorian's forehead, another to his cheek, brush a hand through the hair that he’s never seen but  _ knows _ is dark and thick. Knows it in the same way he knows the Mandalorian’s eyes are brown and he has a scar above his left brow.

Corin keeps his hands to himself, fists clenching open and closed on his lap. The worst part is, he knows the hunter would let it happen. The ache they both feel would be soothed if Corin just had the courage to breach the gap between them. 

His thoughts are cut off when the Mandalorian starts up again. 

“And then some weeks later we ran back into each other. Destiny, the Force,  _ luck _ ,” The hunter knocked their knees together. “You were set to be executed and the little womp rat made me jump into the chaos to save you.”

“And then?” Corin asks, eager to heal the hurt in any way he could. 

“And then…” the Mandalorian shrugs. “You stayed with us. Sacrificed yourself half a dozen times for me and the child. Yet you never asked for anything more than not to be left behind.” The hunter pulls at his gloves, rubbing his bare hand over his wrist. A nervous tick maybe, or reminiscing over yet another old memory Corin doesn’t share. 

But that wasn’t enough. Corin needs more. He  _ knows _ there was more. “And then?” He says again, pushing more than he should’ve. 

The Mandalorian’s hand stills. Tension pulling his shoulders back. “You want to know what we were?” 

“I want answers.”

“Yes, Corin, we were married.” The hunter sighs again, defeat settling over him. “After Gideon died we found a place to settle. A little jungle planet way off the map. Just us and the kid.” His voice becomes wistful. “We had a little garden with spies for  _ Tiingilar _ . And a loth-cat we adopted and named Lucky because you fed the poor thing once and she never left us alone after that. There was a little village nearby for whatever we needed that we couldn’t make ourselves.”

The Mandalorian pauses a moment to collect himself. Corin hears him clear his throat before he can continue. “It all burned when Jax came. I still don’t know how he found us,” the hunter says, voice barely a whisper. He shakes his head. “There was the fire, and troopers, and it was all I could do to escape with the kid. They tracked us for days, chasing us down and at the same time keeping us away from getting back to you.” 

Corin reaches out, can’t help himself. And sets a hand on the Mandalorian’s thigh. The fabric of his pants is a thick denim blend that had worn soft. He squeezes his hand gently, offering support in the only way he knows how. 

“We had a whole life together. And Jax took that from you.” The hunter shakes his head, setting his bare hand over the top of Corins for a moment and then standing. “Go to bed, Corin. I’ll see you in the morning.” The Mandalorian’s voice is rough. It betrays the pain Corin knows he must be feeling. The visor doesn’t even twitch in Corin’s direction. 

Corin wants to argue, bring up that the hunter needs sleep too. But he knows that it’s only an excuse. He wants comfort, reassurance,  _ touch _ . All he has to do is ask, and the hunter would give Corin anything he wants. He holds his tongue, feeling much more sober than he had when he stormed out. 

He watches from his seat on the porch as the hunter makes his way back inside. The bad taste in his mouth had nothing to do with the alcohol. Corin curses himself for making everything so much worse. He stands and staggers his way into the silo. A quick glance at the crib tells him the child is still sleeping soundly. Corin collapses onto the narrow bed, barely remembering to kick off his shoes. 

-

The morning comes with fresh air, clear skies, and a massive headache. Corin groans and buries his head under the pillow. He remembers everything, ironically. He almost wishes he didn’t. 

The embarrassment of the conversation hits him full force. Corin’s stomach rolls with anxiety over having to face the Mandalorian. Drunkenness was no excuse for the way he had acted. Though he knows the Mandalorian won’t be mad, there is still the voice in the back of Corin’s head that whispers doubt. 

The child coos and whines to be lifted from the crib. Corin rolls over, glaring at his living alarm clock. Big green ears flick up in excitement when he sees that Corin has heard him. A happy babble puts a grin on Corin’s face. It falls just as fast when he realizes what the child is saying.

“Da! Da! Da!” 

Corin blinks. This whole time. The kid has been calling him Dad this  _ whole time,  _ and he had written it off as gibberish. Corin swallows against the sudden tightness in his throat. He was a father. He was a husband. The information is a lot more than he can handle this early in the morning. 

He wants this. Corin can admit that to himself. He feels more safe and whole with the child and the Mandalorian than he has in his entire life. But to jump into the roles he had before? To try and pick up from where he left off?

It’s a lot. 

Corin swallows and shoves his doubts aside. The child is hungry and that matters more than Corin’s insecurities. 

The Mandalorian is sitting at the table when Corin comes in with the baby. He looks up, the tilt of the helmet is a silent question. The child reaches out for its other parent, cooing excitedly. The hunter chuckles and meets the child halfway, happy to take him off Corin’s hands. 

Corin is beyond relieved when he realizes that nothing between them has really changed. He was worried that their interactions would become awkward, stilted. Instead, there is only the easy familiarity that they had found the day before. And… maybe a bit more. 

He knows they need to talk about this. About whatever it is that buzzes between them. Neither of them are ready to jump back into a marriage, or even a real relationship, that much is obvious. Corin needs to know where they stand, but for right now, the words can wait. 

They’re standing closer together than might be strictly necessary. The baby laughs as he bounces in the Mandalorian’s arms, happy to be between them. Corin smiles down at the kid and then looks up at the hunter. Something in his posture shifts, the helmet turns to look at him instead of the kid. Corin doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling too. 

_ I can let myself have this _ , Corin thinks.  _ This was mine. This  _ is  _ mine. _ He’s a heartbeat away from pressing his forehead against the helmet when Liita clears her throat from the doorway.

“Sorry to barge in,” Liita raises an eyebrow, “but we’ve got a ship to fix.” She points the wrench in her hand towards the hunter. “And you’ve got a job to do.”

Corin frowns, irritated at being interrupted and more irritated that the Mandalorian is leaving again. 

“I’ll be back before the suns are down,” the Mandalorians promises, as though he can read Corin’s mind. There’s something in his look that promises a future conversation. They can talk later. He passes the child back to Corin as grabs his rifle from where it’s propped up against the wall on his way out. Corin can’t help but feel like a lost puppy as he watches him disappear through the door. 

“He’ll be fine,” Liita promises. “Good news is,” she claps him on the shoulder, “you both get to come help me!” 

Corin perks at the prospect of making himself useful. The child coos and smiles, content to be doing anything as long as he’s with his dad. Corin runs a hand over the baby’s head and presses a gentle kiss to his ear. 

-

The rest of the day passes in the quick rhythm of work, food, babysitting, and more work. The child plays in the dead cockpit or the not-quite-baby-proofed engine room. Corin keep a close eye, but the child manages to stay out of trouble. 

He makes the trip to and from the cabin several times, carrying tools or food or whatever other supplies Liita might be in need of. 

The day passes quickly, and Corin almost forgets about the impending conversation until the Mandalorian returns that evening. 

Corin has the baby on his hip, stirring their still-cooking dinner when he hears the door open and shut behind him. He doesn’t bother turning around, thinking it’s just Liita coming back from the ship. 

“Hand me the salt, would you?” Corin asks, pointing to the bottle on the end of the counter. He jumps when he sees who hands it to him. 

“I, uh, thank you.” The awkward stuttering makes his embarrassment even worse. His cheeks burn. Corin quickly turns back to the pot. The child, of course, never makes anything easier on him. He whines and holds out his arms until the Mandalorian comes over to take him. 

Corin can feel the heat of the hunter almost touching his back. 

“Everything okay?” the Mandalorian asks. Corin’s responding nod is a little too quick to be believable. He doesn’t dare turn around. He knows the hunter is staring holes in the back of Corin’s head. 

“Corin.” 

There is an audible swallow before the ex-trooper finally turns around. “I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing Corin can think to say. He knows this is his fault. “I want to be here. I do. With you and the kid.” Corin reaches out to rub his thumb across one of his ears. “I just… I can’t- I’m not-”

“I don’t expect anything from you.” The Mandalorian looks like he wants to take a step forward, wants to close the mile-wide gap between them. He stays exactly where he is. “Nothing’s changed. Just…” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “Stay with us.”

Corin nods, not trusting his voice to say anything. He tries to make eye contact through the helmet. He just stares, searching for any hint of  _ anything _ . 

“That’s it?” He asks. Because nothing is ever that simple. There is always good or bad luck. There is always a fall-out, a consequence, a reaction. 

“That’s it.” The Mandalorian reassures, and then takes a step back. He turns to dig through his bag on the table. 

“So,” the hunter changes the subject, “how’s the ship?”

Corin answers, talking about his day and the repairs and Liita’s frustration with how bad of a condition the  _ Crest _ was in. 

The tension between them disappears like it was never there.

-

The ship is up and running within two days. Liita works fast and even faster with help. They had all the parts they needed. Though Liita was particular about her ships, even Corin was able to help out with the imperial parts. 

Since the  _ Crest _ was pre-empire, the imperial standard joint and connectors had to be converted. It was a pain in the ass, but worth the extra work. By evening on their third day at Liita’s, the _ Razor Crest _ is running more smoothly than she had before they were ambushed. 

Even the quiet rattle on the left engine is fixed. Corin feels a little jerk in chest when he realizes it but says nothing and thanks Liita all the same. 

“How can I repay you?” Din says, reaching out to take her hand. He clasps her forearm tightly and she does the same.

“You already paid me for labor. If you really want to pay me back, promise me you’ll stop getting into trouble.” Liita narrows her eyes, completely unafraid of the warrior looming above her.

Corin can’t see it, but he knows the hunter is smiling under his helmet. 

“That’s asking too much,” the Mandalorian teases, shaking his head.

Liita scowls and turns to Corin, roughly dropping the Mandalorian’s hand. “And you,” Corin straightens under her scrutiny. His instincts say to duck his head but knows it would only make matters worse. Liita searches his eyes for a moment before she continues. “Keep these two safe. Got it?”

Corin nods. His hand twitches to salute her but he keeps it still. “Roger that.” 

“Good,” Liita says and slaps his shoulder harder than necessary. “Now get out of here.”

Corin smiles and grabs the last of the boxes to leave. The hunter lags just behind, baby in his free hand, bag in the other. 

The planet disappears out from under them, getting smaller and smaller. Corin feels like he left a piece of himself behind. Turning from the window to look back at the child, Corin thinks maybe the piece he left behind is better off gone. 

When he takes another breath, his shoulders don’t feel quite so heavy.

—————————

_ Ten Months Earlier _

_ Finding CT-113 had been almost hysterically easy. Jax started at their last known location and made a large spiral out from that point. When the radar first pinged, Jax thought it had been a glitch. The planet was nothing special. It was a mid-rim jungle-covered backwater rock. Then he realized that that was exactly why CT-113 had decided to settle there. For a hiding place, it was a good one. But not even thick jungles and remote landing sites would keep Jax from what was possibly the weapon to end the war.  _

_ What Jax did not expect was to find all three targets. The longer he had searched the more sure he had become that the trio had split off. The Mandalorian would have no doubt ditched the trooper at the first available starport. What use did a Mandalorian have for a rogue stormtrooper anyway? Jax had assumed that he would find the trooper alone and have to pull information from him by force.  _

_ Instead, Jax had managed to get extremely lucky. For whatever reason, the trio had stuck together. They lived a few miles from the nearest village on an older farm. Jax watched and waited. He couldn’t rush in alone or unprepared. He had one chance to get The Child, and he couldn’t mess that up.  _

_ The Child, as it turned out, was still very much a baby. At 52 years old, the thing might as well have been born only a couple cycles ago. It toddled across the yard chasing a frog while CT-113 and the Mandalorian worked in the garden. They seemed peaceful. They had gone nearly two years without an attack, and they had let their guards down.  _

_ It was a week before Jax came back with the squad of fire troopers. The house was wood and the fall had brought dry air.  _

_ Let it burn.  _

_ Jax hadn’t accounted for the ex-trooper to sacrifice himself. He hadn’t realized the trap until it was too late. Until CT-113 had distracted him long enough for the Mandalorian and the Child to get away. _

_ “After them!” He yelled, waving a unit of troopers towards the jungle. “Bring the Child back alive!”  _

_ Jax sneered down at the gasping ex-trooper kneeling in the dirt. He clenched his fist and the struggling stopped. He had plans for this one. If the Child got away, he would stop at nothing to get it back. _

_ - _

_ “Where’s the Child?” Jax asked for the hundredth time. Corin choked out a painful laugh. Every second Jax stayed in this interrogation was another second the Child could escape.  _

_ Corin glared up into the eyes of the imperial commander. He spat blood to the side, the wound in his cheek still leaking. Blood dribbled from his broken nose. He wanted to wipe it away but with his hands bound, he settled for licking the gore from his lip. He never once broke eye-contact.  _

_ “Fuck you,” Corin growled. Let these Imps do whatever they wanted with him. Nothing short of a blaster to the child’s head would get him to talk. He knew exactly where they would run to. Din had told him again and again their escape plan if the day ever did come. Told him where to go if they ever got separated.  _ _ Corin had all the information Jax wanted. He’d die before he broke. Jax gritted his teeth. His fists clenched. _

If I’m going to die, _ Corin thought,  _ let it be for them. __

_ The snarl on Jax’s face turns to something more menacing. “Send him to Reconditioning.” _

_ Corin’s heart drops and shatters on the floor. An ocean of cold dread drowns all other emotions. His body goes numb and the pain falls away.  _ _ “Wait!” He screams. “No! Just kill me!” He kicks at the death troopers what drag him out of the room. “‘I’ll do anything!”  _

_ Jax holds up a hand and the troopers stop. He crouches in front of Corin, roughly grabbing his chin. “Where is the Child?"  _

_ Corin spits blood and saliva into the Sith’s face.  _ _ Jax lip curls in fury. There is fire behind his eyes. Corin can deal with anger. He can deal with physical abuse. Let Jax hit him all he wants.  _ _ Uncontrolled sparks of rage jump between Jax’s fingers. He roughly pushes Corin’s face away and stands. “Get him out of here.” _

_ The death troopers drag him away screaming.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you're all just so disappointed in the lack of angst but worry not guys! The fluff won't last for long.
> 
> Summary for flashback: Jax tracks down Corin and our family. Corin uses himself as a decoy to distract Jax and it works. Corin is taken back to Jax's ship and forcefully interrogated. Jax sends him down to reconditioning when he realizes Corin isn't going to talk.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corin tries to ignore his problems. Din finds it harder to keep from blaming himself. The child knocks over some pepper. A new weakness is discovered. The grass is a metaphor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thanks so much to Cacodaemonia for being a wonderful beta! Not sure how she deals with my constant tense changes. 
> 
> I know this is a week and a half late from my update schedule. I am sorry about that. On the bright side, I passed all 5 of my midterms! 
> 
> TW FOR THE FLASHBACK depictions of torture but a little worse than last time. I'll put a non-graphic summary in the notes at the end. 
> 
> Hope this long chapter makes up for the wait! Sorry y'all <3

They're on the ship for nearly two full days. It’s constant paranoia just as it was on Liita’s barren planet. Corin and the Mandalorian both know the empire is looming, chasing, just around every corner. Even in the relative safety of hyperspace, they keep a watch rotation. The hours stretch long and empty. 

They break at a smuggler’s moon, far from imperial control. That doesn’t stop Corin from throwing a glance over his shoulder every few minutes. He knows better than anyone just how embedded the empire still was, even in the most desolate of places. 

They’re here not so much for supplies, but for the benefit of the child. He’s still young, full of energy, and in need of constant entertainment. But over all, the little guy is surprisingly easy to care for. 

“Better behaved than he has been in months,” the Mandalorian remarks. “When we were hunting for you, he would get fussy if I didn’t stop and let him go exploring every couple days.”

Corin smiles, bouncing the baby on his hip as they walk through the market. “Exploring?” He teases, “or making you buy him new toys?” 

The Mandalorian huffs, and Corin can read the eye-roll in his body language. Corin laughs, knowing he’s right. The Mandalorian is a softy even if he’d die before admitting it. 

The child squirms when they pass by a sweet smelling booth. He reaches out his tiny three-fingered hands and whines when Corin passes right by the vendor. “How about we get you real food, okay Ad’ika?”

The child seems unsatisfied by the answer and tries to climb out of Corin’s arms towards the cart. The Mandalorian whips around and stops in the middle of the street. “What did you just say?” 

Corin shrinks under the intense glare of the helmet, shoulders coming up to his ears. “I-I said we should probably get him real food? B-but if-“

“You called him Ad’ika.” The T-visor stares him down, waiting for an explanation that Corin can’t give. 

Corin frowns and swallows. “I did? I don’t- I must’ve heard you say it.” He shakes his head, a headache beginning behind his temples. “What does it mean?”

The hunter sighs deeply and turns back around, continuing down the street. “Little one.” His voice is clipped. Corin tries not to take it personally. 

Guilt weighs heavy on Corin’s shoulders. It pulls his chin down and shoulders in. Corin knows he’s not who the Mandalorian wants him to be. He may have the same face, but he’s not the kid’s father. He’s not anyone's ally, friend, or husband. He’s not the Corin everyone wants him to be, and he may never be. For now, all he can do is try not to say the wrong thing.

They eventually find the child some food, and a new conversation is picked up as though Corin had never made the slip at all. Between laughing as the kid gets food all over himself, and eagerly listening to the story the Mandalorian is telling, Corin almost forgets they’re being hunted. 

The short pitstop passes uneventfully. No sign of imperial sympathizers. No stray stormtroopers. Not even a lone spice runner in need of the Mandalorian’s “services.” They’re undisturbed for the entire outing. It’s quiet enough to make Corin wary, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s the calm before the storm, and Corin knows bad luck is on the horizon. 

They spend the night in hyperspace, not wanting to chance an inn on a moon that was a regular rendez-vous point for bootleggers and slave traders. The baby is exhausted from the long day of walking and is put to bed without a fight. Corin volunteers to take first watch in the cockpit. The Mandalorian gives him a grateful nod and heads off to the bunk downstairs. 

A place in Corin’s chest tightens when he thinks about the Mandalorian trying to manage all of this alone. How many times had he slept in this chair even when the bed was only feet away? When was the last time the hunter had gotten a full night’s sleep? Even during their stay at Liita’s, the Mandalorian hadn’t gone to sleep until long after nightfall and was awake well before the suns rose. 

Corin keeps watch. It’s the least he can do. He will never begin to repay the debt he owes the hunter, but he can at least make himself useful. 

It’s quiet for hours, Corin the only one awake. The only sound is soft snores from below. He doesn’t dare go down the ladder to check on them in case the Mandalorian had taken off the helmet to sleep. 

Corin respects the Creed, even if he doesn’t completely understand it. And although, technically, Corin seeing the Mandalorian without the helmet wasn’t breaking the Creed since they were married, it still felt wrong. The hunter was married to the _other_ Corin. The one CT-113 wishes he could be. 

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, trying to clear his spiraling thoughts. The control panel beeps and whirs, signaling a course adjustment. Corin wonders why the Mandalorian doesn’t just install an astromech droid to do most of the flying, but it wasn’t his place to question such things. 

Clicking a button and flipping a switch, Corin turns the hyperdrive down and steers the _Crest_ left by twelve degrees before they run through a star. It’s all basic navigation, minute calculations, usually done by the computer which is pointedly lacking in this case. It’s stuff Corin finds dull and boring, pointless to learn when a droid could do it better. But piloting the _Crest_ comes naturally to him. Like he’s done it before. 

_Because I have_. Corin tells himself. It’s all muscle memory, even if he’s not conscious of it. Like calling the child Ad’ika. His memories are still there, buried too deep for the interrogation droid to find, only dredged up by the subconscious of sleep and instinct. He doesn’t let himself hope for anything more.

Once they’re clear of the star, Corin flips on auto pilot once more. The cockpit falls silent, only the whine of the hyperdrive can be heard. 

It lasts exactly five seconds before Corin is itching for noise. Being alone is foreign to him. Always on patrol with another trooper, always sleeping in barracks, always being watched by superiors. He fidgets in his seat, itching for something to do. His eyes catch on a nearby datapad. Corin knows it’s an invasion of the Mandalorians privacy, but come on he’s got hours to kill. Surely the hunter won’t mind as long as Corin only uses the holonet, right? 

The datapad, and endless episodes of mindless entertainment, provide enough stimulus to keep Corin awake through the long hours. It was unnecessary since his training insured he would never fall asleep on the job, but, well, Corin kind of likes the soaps. 

“You liked that show before too.” The voice scares Corin so bad he nearly chucks the datapad in the hunters direction. The Mandalorian just chuckles and moves towards the pilot's chair. Corin says nothing, trying to get his heart-rate down before it kills him. 

“A guilty pleasure you tried to hide but forgot to remove it from the search history. You were so embarrassed when I asked you about it.” The tone of the hunters voice betrays the smile under the helmet, the eyes distant in recalling a far off memory. “I asked you why you liked that dumb holodrama, and you said it was because you were never allowed to watch them before, but I knew it was because you thought the lead actor was cute.” The Mandalorian sets a hand on the back of the chair, effectively trapping Corin between him and the console. 

“I- uh-” Corin swallows and glances up and down the hard lines of the Mandalorian’s figure. The hunter was relaxed for once, dressed only in his sleep clothes and helmet. Corin can’t help how his mouth goes dry or his pulse kicks up again when he realizes how close they are. “I do not!”

The Mandalorian huffs another laugh and shakes his head. “Go to bed, Corin. You’re already well past the shift change.” A quick glance down at the time tells Corin that the hunter was right. He had gotten distracted by the episode, and honestly, he wants to stay up and see how it ends. The Mandalorian, who always seems to be able to read Corin’s mind, takes the holopad from his hands before he can argue. “I can take care of things until the Child wakes up.”

Corin nods, recognizing the order for what it is. He stands, back a little too-straight as he leaves. 

His sleep is plagued with nightmares. It always has been. Either horrors that are too vivid to be anything other than memories, or complete blankness. In a way, the memories of beatings and torture are almost easier than the utter _nothingness_ that leaves him unsettled for hours after he wakes up. It’s a black cloak that clings to him, threatening to drag him back under. It’s the reason why Corin avoids sleep. He can brush off the screams and fires and phantom broken bones. But the darkness is different. It’s not just a memory, it’s the _absence_ of one. It’s a reminder of the ever present reality that his mind has more places that are blank than filled. 

So when Corin settles into the still-warm bunk, he hopes good luck will give him a real nightmare. He’s beginning to drift off to sleep, when he hears the sound of the closet door sliding open. Corin peaks an eyes around the wall of the alcove, hoping it was just the hunter. He’s not so lucky, and about three seconds later, the child is climbing his way onto the bed with Corin. 

“I thought I put you to bed,” Corin grumbles, too tired to fight back. He’s sure the hunter wouldn’t be too happy to see Corin spoiling the child. Regardless, Corin pulls the child close, letting him tuck his too-big ears into the crook of his neck. Little claws curl against his collar bone. 

A heavy weight settles over Corin. Not just physically but mentally as well. It’s soothing and feels like a massive blanket. It brings peace, good luck, and Corin’s first nightmare-free rest in months. 

-

Din is alone. It’s not the first time. Nor will it be the last. The helmet slips off with a hiss from the air filter decompressing. He lets out a sigh and runs a hand through his tangled hair. 

With a dissatisfied grunt, Din extricates his hand from the knots and slumps against the pilot’s chair. It’s been years since he has had to be careful with the helmet. 

With only the kid around, there was almost no point wearing it on the ship. And after he and Corin had gotten married, he rarely bothered with it inside the house. Din’s stomach twists at the mention of their past and he quickly diverts his thoughts elsewhere. Not that they had any other place to go. His entire world had been thrown off its axis by Corin’s disappearance and then sudden reappearance. 

Corin, his safety, his health, _everything,_ had been haunting Din since the moment he fled from the fire. Every thought and act, that wasn’t in service of the child, was for finding Corin. 

The side jobs he took were for money to purchase fuel for chasing the pull the child felt. The hunt of every lead, the constant travel, the refusal to even entertain the idea his _riduur_ might be dead. It was all to get Corin back. 

And even after all that. After months of hunting. After planet hopping. After finally cornering his _cyare_ on some deserted mid-rim moon. 

Here Din sat, alone in the cockpit, with a man who didn’t know him sleeping in their bunk downstairs. Din’s mouth twists at the irony. Corin is closer than he’s ever been and yet still unreachable. 

Din swallows against the pain in his chest and looks out of the windshield. The lights of hyperspace streak past. At least they’re together. 

-

Din hears the child wake only four hours after his shift starts. It would be unfair to wake Corin, who had had at least two hours longer to keep watch. So Din slips on his helmet and quietly makes his way down the rungs of the ladder. 

He finds Corin, barely awake and bleary eyed with the child on his chest. A hand tiredly brushing through the peach fuzz on the child’s head. Din’s heart twists at the sight which used to be so familiar to him. It would be all too easy to pretend like everything was fine. Like the way it used to be. 

“Morning,” Din says, rougher than he wants. The sight of the two of them together tightens his throat so he looks away, busying himself with anything else, before he does something stupid.

The child coos and reaches up to be held. Din complies immediately, hiking the little guy up against his breastplate. He looks over at Corin who’s still splayed out half asleep on the bed. 

“Breakfast?” He asks, kicking the wall to force Corin up before he spends too much time thinking about those thighs. “We’ve got some eggs left from Liita’s?” 

Corin nods “Yes please.” He yawns and stretches, arms high above his head. Din keeps his eyes fixed on the kid. 

“Alright, up, we’ve got a full day of travel.” 

Corin almost looks like he’s getting ready to complain and it puts a soft smile on Din’s lips. But the trooper just nods and starts getting ready. 

_Baby steps,_ Din reminds himself. _Be grateful that he’s home_. At least Corin has stopped calling Din “sir.”

-

Corin passes the down time alternating between babysitting, cleaning, or both. The red sand of Liita’s planet hides in every nook and cranny. The more he cleans, the more he finds. Corin uses an old rag and metal cleaner from the box of his things and sets to work. Scrubbing and polishing every crimson stained surface. The secondary door of the child’s room is filthy. It’s positioned directly across from the bay door so the wind must’ve swept the sand against it. 

Corin tsks at the mess, berating himself for not cleaning it sooner. The secondary door is made of beskar, Corin is sure of that now. He wonders how the hunter ever found so much of it. The precious metal is worked into thin overlapping sheets, like flexible armor. The sand hides in the crevices, locking up the joints. While it wasn’t much of a problem now, it would erode the metal over time and become a major problem later. 

While Corin works, the child is preoccupied with making his stuffed animals dance in the air. He laughs and coos, swinging them over into Corin’s field of vision every now and then. Corin smiles and pretends to say hello to the tiny blue krill toy before eventually turning back to his job. 

It’s nice. Corin keeps his hands busy, humming to himself, and keeping a close eye on the sneaky kid. 

The Mandalorian comes down from the cockpit eventually. Corin smiles in greeting but spares no more than that before he refocuses on his work. He doesn’t notice how long the Mandalorian just stands there watching them. Nor does he see the fond smile under the helmet. 

The child squeals at the appearance of his father and runs to his knee, hands up in a silent plea to be held. The Mandalorian complies, unable to deny the child anything. He turns back to where Corin is working. “What are you doing?” The hunter asks. 

Corin flinches and waits for the inevitable punishment for using the cleaning supplies without permission. But it never comes. He glances up to find no hostility or anger in the Mandalorian’s posture, just genuine curiosity. The child tilts his head to the side, ears flicking up. 

“I’m- um- there was sand in the joints,” Corin tries to explain. The Mandalorian says nothing, just waits for Corin to continue. He still can’t shake the feeling like he’s done something wrong. He must’ve with the way the hunter is looking at him with undivided attention. Attention was never a good thing. “Is this the wrong cleaner? I should’ve asked if beskar needs-”

“No, that stuff is fine.” The Mandalorian cuts him off. “It looks great, thank you.” 

Corin blinks, unable to process the compliment, no matter how minor it is. The Mandalorian just chuckles and mutters something about old habits before moving into the kitchenette. He’s still within earshot, and Corin can hear him speaking softly to the child. 

It takes a moment for Corin’s brain to come back online. When it does, his question from earlier comes back to him. He waits until he hears the Mandalorian fall silent, not wanting to interrupt whatever one-sided conversation he might be having with the child. “So where did you get all this beskar?” Corin asks, voice raised only slightly so that the Mandalorian could hear him over the hyperdrive. “It’s supposed to be rare, right? But you’ve got a whole door of it.”

“I do.” The hunter acknowledges. “It will be melted down one day to make armor for the Child if he chooses to follow the Way. For now, it protects him in a different way.” 

That doesn’t answer Corin’s question. He hesitates a moment before asking again. “But where did you get it?”

The Mandalorian walks back into the main cargo hold, the child settled in his elbow and chewing happily on a toy. The juxtaposition of a baby and a cold-blooded killer brings a bemused smile to Corin’s face. He coughs, trying to cover the amusement before the Mandalorian catches it. 

“Gideon was obsessed with Mandalorians and beskar,” the Mandalorian begins. “He collected artifacts that are sacred to my people. After I killed him, we pillaged his ship and found dozens of relics.” The Mandalorian talks as he moves through the cargo hold, picking up the child’s scattered toys. He bends down to pick one up and holds it in his hand, the thumb brushing over the fabric is reminiscent. Corin can tell he’s not thinking about the toy. 

“It was your idea to track down the old bloodlines and return the heirlooms.” The hunter says, pulling himself from his thoughts. “It started by returning the dark-saber to Paz, my brother. It belongs to his clan and was taken when his father was killed by Gideon’s men.” The Mandalorian pauses but continues quickly, ticking off his fingers as he recites the list. “Then there was a _bes’bev_ . And the _kyr'bes_. It became a hobby.” He waves his hand dismissively and reaches for another toy. The Child fights to claim each one the hunter picks up. The Mandalorian doesn’t even bother to argue with the child, letting him hold each new toy as they’re gathered. 

Corin sits, watches, and listens. Unprompted, the Mandalorian keeps talking.“You loved being able to do that for people. To return what was taken from them.” His voice gets tight and the visor turns to look at Corin. “You said it gave you purpose. That you were finally able to make up for all the bad things you had done.”

Corin holds his gaze for as long as he can before the intensity makes him look away. He never knows what to think or how to feel about the sharp, sometimes predatory, focus of the Mandalorian. He tries to shift the topic. “And this?” Corin runs his fingertips along the cold door. His touch is gentle and reverent now that he knows the meaning behind it. He is more careful with the rag as he continues his work.

“Not every person we found wanted to keep the empty helmets,” the Mandalorian says. “Too much pain associated with it. But beskar never goes to waste. We only kept what we needed to make two full sets, and then donated the rest to the tribe and foundlings. This is the Way.” The Mandalorian tosses the toys onto the bunk, resigning to put them up later when Corin wasn’t cleaning the door. 

Corin nods, finding every word fascinating. The Mandalorian people never failed to intrigue him. The only things he knew came from debriefings on how to fight them. Corin pauses as he realises what the hunter had said. “Two sets?” He asks, still facing the door.

“One for you and the other for the child,” the hunter states as if it was obvious. “Made into a door for now, but armor later if he chooses.”

“I had a set? You wasted beskar on _me_ ?” Corin tries to keep the shock from his voice but knows it doesn’t work. The hand holding the rag pauses and then drops to his lap. What could he possibly have done to deserve such a precious and priceless gift? A chestplate alone was worth thousands of credits. Corin remembers overhearing some officers talk about it with no lack of envy. And yet Corin, nothing but an ex stormtrooper, had managed to grab one for himself. _Why?_

“It was not wasted. You earned it, Corin. You are _Mandokarla_ ,” The Mandaloiran says, voice gentle but leaving no room for argument. 

“Oh.” Corin has no idea what that means but he still understands the gravity of it, the way the Mandalorian uses the present tense. He’s not quite sure what to make of that, so he ignores it. Whatever had made him worthy was part of the past, even if the Mandalorian doesn’t acknowledge it.

Corin glances back over his shoulder at the hunter, openly curious now. “What happened to it?” He hadn’t seen a spare set of armor lying around. There was nothing in his box of belongings that resembled beskar armor, and certainly not an entire set. Maybe it was hidden, or locked away somewhere safe, or even melted down and put to better use than protecting him. 

The Mandalorian sighs and then sits on the bed, Child cooing in his lap, ears down and eyes wide. The child reaches up to place tiny claws against his father’s cuirass. The hunter has to clear his throat before he can speak. “You were wearing it when they took you.” 

Corin isn’t sure how to respond. “I’m sorry,” is all he can think to say. His fault that he lost the beskar. His fault that he wasn’t strong enough to fight back. 

The Mandalorian sets the child on the bed, then stands and walks over to Corin, crouching down next to him. He reaches up to place a gloved hand against Corin’s neck. It is instinct, and _only_ instinct, that makes Corin lean into the touch. 

Corin sees himself reflected in the shining beskar helmet. Hair buzzed short. Eyes wide. He can feel the warmth of the Mandalorian’s hand on his neck through the leather. It sends a chill down Corin’s spine that he tries his best not to think about. The air between them is tense and the child is quiet, watching them from his spot on the bunk.

It’s a while before the Mandaloran says anything. “Your capture is not your fault. None of this is your fault.” 

And Corin almost believes him.

Corin’s not stupid. He knows the Mandalorian doesn’t really want him around. The only real reason why he’s tolerating a stormtrooper on his ship is for the slim chance that his memories might come back. The hunter isn’t in love with him but the _idea_ of him. Corin _knows_ this. And yet…

It’s getting harder to separate what he knows from what he feels. Harder to tell himself this won’t last. That the way the Mandalorian’s entire body language softens around Corin is nothing more than a projection of his own feelings. That the way a gloved hand lingers for a heartbeat too long is only his imagination. That the gentle voice coaxing him from nightmares is actually for _him_ and not someone else. 

Corin _wants_. Wants to remember. Wants to love and be loved. Wants this little family they have to be a reality. He wants to be more than a placeholder for a man that may never return. 

But that’s all Corin is, really, a placeholder. A temporary part used to hold something together until it is discarded and replaced for the real thing. He _knows_ this. 

And yet…

He pushes away the Mandalorian’s hand and turns back to cleaning without another word.

-

At dinner, the Child comes and tugs on the edge of Corin’s shirt with a whine. His big brown eyes make a silent plea for attention and affection. Corin smiles and brings him up into his arms. He brushes his knuckles across wrinkles and peach fuzz and across an ear. The child squints at the feeling and leans into the next pass of Corin’s fingers. 

“I didn’t mean to be in a bad mood today,” Corin sighs. “I just…” he stares longingly at the cockpit ladder. 

The child whines in his arms and draws Corin’s attention back to reality. “Let’s get you food then, huh?” The kid immediately brightens and smiles, ears perking. 

Corin can’t help but laugh, the cloud hanging over him disappearing immediately with the child’s smile. “Let’s make some for your dad too then. I doubt he’s eaten today.”

The kitchenette is running low on food and they’ll have to stop soon for supplies, but finding what he needs is easy enough. 

A pot, boiling water, pasta. Corin uses one of the uncooked noodles to poke at the child’s cheeks, eliciting a happy babble of laughter. Sauce, cubed meat, spices. The womp rat knocks a small canister off the table top and pepper spills all over the floor. Corin sighs and barely stops the kid from pushing off the salt too. 

Corin sits the child at the bartop, buckling him into the highchair and leaves the kid to play with, more than eat, his food. He grabs an extra plate and takes it up to the cockpit. He’s careful to announce his presence first, not wanting to disturb the Mandalorian in the middle of something important. 

“You’re good,” the Mandalorian clears. Corin uses his hip to hit the button. The cockpit slides open, and Corin finds everything exactly the way it was when he was up here earlier. 

“I brought you dinner,” Corin says, handing the plate to the outstretched hands. “The kid was hungry so I just thought…” he trails off, not quite sure what he was going to say. Maybe anything. Just something to clear the air between them after earlier. 

The Mandalorian nods and sets the plate in his lap, politely waiting for Corin to leave. His T visor is still looking up into Corin’s face. 

“I’ll… um-” Corin clears his throat. “I’ll go, sorry.” He turns, cheeks burning with embarrassment though he’s not quite sure why. 

“Corin.” The hunter is lightning quick to catch Corin’s wrist before he can take another step. Soft leather rubs across Corin’s pulse point and sends sparks up his entire arm and down his spine. He tries to repress the shiver it causes. “Thank you,” The Mandalorian says finally after several seconds of silence. 

Corin smiles, the olive branch offered and received. “Of course.” The Mandalorian drops his hand and lets him leave. 

Corin drops down to the cargo hold to find red sauce all over the floor. “Oh come _on.”_

-

They land 30 hours later. Corin makes the time fly by making himself useful. Always busy. If he sits still for too long he starts thinking. About the Child. About the Mandalorian. About his past. About Jax.

It’s still too much, and it’s all Corin can do to just go with the flow. He doesn’t want to create any more disruptions than he already has. If he doesn’t think too hard, he won’t have to worry about where he stands or who he really is. They’re on the run, and he doesn’t have time to sort through it all now. So he ignores it, and keeps himself busy.

The Child is the best distraction. They draw and play and practice making things float. When Corin sleeps, it’s with the Child on his chest. When he’s alone during his watch shift, the holodramas play on repeat, one episode after the other. Corin knows he can’t avoid the truth forever, but he can damn well try.

When they land this time it really is to refuel and restock. They’re not here for a job or work, but trouble finds them anyway. Corin had been minding his own business when the Aqualish confronts him. 

Corin knows bad luck has struck before the smuggler even opens his mouth. He’s keeping to himself, trying to catch the bartender's attention to order more broth for the kid. “What are you doing out here all alone?” 

Corin barely glances over, hoping that by ignoring the ugly alien, he’ll go away. He calls for the bartender again and gets a dismissive wave. At least it was an acknowledgement. 

“Here, if you want a drink so badly, let me buy one for you.” The Aqualish moves a step closer. The light catches on the broach around his neck. It’s shining silver emblazoned with an unfamiliar logo. 

Corin bristles, hand already inching towards his hip. He tries to remain casual. There’s no need to start a bar fight if it can be avoided. Sure, he knows with the Mandalorian’s help they’ll win no problem. But they’re really just here for fuel and then they’d be on their way. A fight would make waves and draw attention, which is the last thing they need right now. Corin can deal with an overly friendly smuggler on his own.

“Really not interested, thanks.” Corin gives him a tense smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. His fingers curl around the leather grip of his blaster. 

The smuggler takes another step, now only inches from Corin’s shoulder. “That wasn’t a question.” That’s when Corin recognizes the symbol on the broach. Slave-traders. If there was one, there were a dozen. Corin is sure they’ve probably already got the place surrounded. This just got a lot more complicated.

Corin tries to keep calm and casually looks over his shoulder to the corner of the room where he left the Mandalorian and the kid. He sees the familiar T-visor watching him closely. _Good_ , Corin thinks, _this is about to get messy_.

The Aqualish’s hand makes contact with Corin’s shoulder in the same moment that Corin draws his blaster and shoots. 

The bar falls completely silent, music grinding to a halt, every eye turning to see what just happened. The Aqualish falls, body hitting the ground with a hollow thud. There is silence and then all hell breaks loose. 

Corin ducks as a barstool is swung over his head, he tackles the assailant, bringing them both to the ground. Across the bar, the Mandalorian is already clearing a path to the door, the Child tucked safely against his beskar. 

It's chaos. Blaster fire and yelling as the opportunity suddenly arises for everyone to settle their physical disputes, related or not to the original conflict. 

Someone pulls Corin up by his shirt collar. He twists out of their hold and then swings, blocks their punch, and side steps to avoid the Rodian that jumps out from behind him. There is yelling from behind the bar as the bartender tries to regain control. Corin swings himself over the bartop and uses the counter as cover while he looks around for the Mandalorian. 

The floor is filthy. Corin grimaces as he army crawls across shattered glass and spilled drinks. Pieces of the glass dig into his elbows but the pain is numbed by adrenaline. He’s almost to the other end, able to jump up and bridge the last few feet to the door, when a stray blaster shot hits the half-empty bottle of correllian wine on the bartop above him. It explodes in a splatter of liquid. Bits of the alcohol catch fire and soon the entire counter is in flames. 

Corin jerks away from it and cowers against the wall. Another shot is fired in his direction and hits the wall less than a foot above him. Something falls heavy on his leg and he hears more glass breaking. He jerks his leg free, pant leg tearing slightly. He needs to keep moving. He has to make sure the child is safe. He has to make sure the Mandalorian is okay. If either of them got hurt it would be his fault. 

“Corin!” A hand pulls him to his feet. “Let's go!” Corin nods, barely able to hear the voice over the noise of the fighting. A strong hand, fisted into his shirt, steers him out of the door. 

Outdoors the world is quiet. The shift is jarring. Corin is still disoriented. He has no time to figure out what is going on before the child is being pushed into his arms. “Back to the ship!” The Mandalorian orders and fires shots behind him.

There are more men out here. Corin was right about the slave traders running in packs. It’s easier to subdue people if you outnumbered them and right now, the three of them were outnumbered almost four to one. Luckily, most of them are focused on the chaos inside. Those that aren’t, are easily taken care of by the Mandalorian. 

Corin runs, the Mandalorian hot on his heels. They’re almost back to the _Crest_ when Corin’s leg gives out. He stumbles, and the hunter catches him right before he falls. Looking down, Corin suddenly notices the three inch long gash in his calf and the blood pouring out of it. Well, yeah, that would explain why he’s feeling lightheaded. 

“ _Kriff._ Corin, what the hell happened?” 

Corin looks up at the Mandalorian, still reeling. His bearings were thrown off by the fire. He had been fine until the stupid bottle exploded. Until fear clogged his senses. Corin grumbles, frustrated with himself for breaking basic training. He just shakes his head. 

Noone bothers them as they limp their way back to the _Crest._ It doesn’t take long, but longer than it would have if Corin didn’t get himself injured. The child, still frightened from the sudden outburst, is shaking against Corin’s chest. 

The Mandalorian is quick in shutting the bay doors behind them. He stands for a minute, helmet against the metal, and takes a deep breath. The fighting wasn’t the issue, the suddenness of it all wasn’t the issue, nor was the noise or the blasters. It was the _fire_. 

Corin had felt raw unfiltered panic at the first feeling of heat against his skin. He had projected that to the kid. And it was all the Mandalorian could do to keep his calm and pull them out. 

Corin collapses onto the bunk, using his free hand to pull up his ruined pant leg. It’s still bleeding badly and the kid is in no state to help. The Mandalorian grabs a rag and tosses it to Corin. 

“Keep pressure on that,” He barks. 

They need to get off this planet. Quickly. 

The Mandalorian jumps up to the cockpit and not thirty seconds later Corin feels the ship lifting off and jumping to hyperspace. Then the hunter is jumping back down the ladder and rushing back to Corin. The child is still shaking, unwilling to move from where he’s buried in Corin’s side. 

Corin shushes and comforts the child, running his free hand up and down its back. Rubbing his ears and doing everything he knows to get the kid to settle.

While his focus is on the kid, the Mandalorians focuses on fixing Corin’s leg. Corin watches the hunter rush to find the supplies he needs. He seems to find them tucked away in a cabinet. He brings the box over to work on Corin’s leg. It’s a first aid kit. It looks old and neglected. With the kid around, Corin assumes it is rarely needed. 

The Mandalorian gently takes the rag from Corin and replaces it with a wad of clean bandages. He holds it there until the blood begins to slow. 

They’re both too tense to speak.

Corin barely feels the sting of alcohol as the wound is cleaned and sterilized. The Mandalorian applies bacta over the wound and then tries to wrap a bandage around it, but his hands are shaking so bad that he can’t get the fabric to stick. 

Corin grabs the hunter’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. The contact draws the Mandalorian’s attention back to the present. “We’re okay.” 

The Mandalorian nods and takes a few deep breaths, this time making sure the bandage stays and even using tape to secure it. 

By the time the child has stopped shaking, the wound is secured with butterfly clasps and wrapped tightly. Corin can already feel the odd itchy tingling that tells him the Bacta is kicking in. The kid fusses, and Corin doesn’t know what else to do but hold him tighter. 

With the injury taken care of, the Mandalorian has nothing left to focus on. He gets off the floor and moves to sit on the bunk beside Corin.

“I was so scared you were dead,” The Mandalorian mumbles so softly that Corin isn’t even sure he said anything at first. 

Corin frowns, confused. “Dead? Back there? I was-”

“No.” The Mandalorian cuts him off. “When you were gone.” He takes a deep breath and then falls forward. Supporting his helmet in his hands, elbows on his knees. Corin just listens. The hunter needs to talk, to vent the excess adrenaline that is making them both jittery. 

“I was so scared the child would lose your trail. Or that I would find your body at the end of it.” The hunter shakes his head, fingers clenching against the beskar helmet where they would be pulling hair. “Or that I would pull back one of those white helmets to find you dead by my hands.”

That’s why he had been taking them off, Corin realizes. When they had first met. 

“I knew they had taken you, but I had no idea what they had done…” The Mandalorian sits up and sighs. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find you sooner. This is all my fault. I left you behind. I let them take you. I couldn’t protect you.”

“No!” Corin’s voice is adamant. “You did what you had to do. For the child. I don't blame you.”

“I do.” The Mandalorian’s voice breaks, more vulnerable than Corin has ever heard it.

Corin reaches out with the hand not holding the child against his chest. He takes the Mandalorian’s hand and rubs his thumb under the glove, against the sliver of golden skin. The helmet whips up to stare at Corin. 

Corin stares into the space behind the visor and holds it. Hoping to show how much he feels. Hoping to show everything he can’t say. Corin presses a kiss to the delicate skin over the Mandalorian’s bare wrist. “This is Jax’s fault. Not yours. Not mine.”

The hunter makes a noise of protest. “But I should have-"

“No.” Corin releases the Mandalorians wrist. The child cries again, drawing both of their attention back to him. 

Corin lets out a deep sigh, the adrenaline crash pulling every drop of energy he has left. He lays back against the bed, pulling the child onto his chest. He lets his eyes fall shut, not even bothering to kick off his shoes.

“I should go keep watch.” The Mandalorian stands, leaving Corin alone on the bunk. 

Corin’s eyes fly open. “Stay.” Corin asks before he can stop himself. The hunter just stares and for a moment Corin thinks he’s going to get mad. Instead, he starts stripping down his armor until he’s left in nothing but underclothes and the helmet. 

Corin shifts to make room without needing to be asked. The Mandalorian lays down on the too-small bunk and almost immediately the tension leaves him. The child finally begins to settle, nestled safely between his parents. 

Exhaustion and panic take away all of Corin’s better judgement. He turns on his side and shifts closer to the hunter’s warm body. There’s no argument, and in fact the Mandalorian seems just as desperate for contact as Corin is. He snakes an arm around Corin’s waist and pulls him closer until they’re tangled together. Corin’s head on his chest and legs slotted between the other’s. One of them lets out a deep contented sigh, it could be either of them. 

Corin reaches out for the Mandalorian’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze before falling asleep.

-

Din wakes up feeling more refreshed than he has in months. Corin is tucked into his side, a comforting weight on his chest and across his legs. The child is tucked somewhere in the mess of blankets and limbs between them. Din’s arm is wrapped protectively around Corin’s shoulders, his fingers twisting into the soft material of the cotton shirt. 

Yesterday was… rough. To say the least. Din is still trying to process everything that had happened. One moment he was sitting at a booth with the kid, the next Corin had killed someone and the bar erupted into fighting. 

But even that was no real reason for Din to be as shaken as he was. He’s been in bar fights before. He’s been outnumbered. The child and Corin have been in danger before. 

So why had Din come back shaking? What about the scrap had bothered him so much?

Din tightens his grip on Corin’s shirt, pulling him that much closer. His other arm holds the Child. His job, above all else, is to protect them. To keep them safe. He’s failed once. He won’t let it happen again. 

He takes a deep breath, chest rising and falling. The child’s ear twitches at the gust of wind. Corin mumbles in his sleep and subconsciously nestles closer. Din’s lips pull into a smile as he stares up at the ceiling, basking in the warmth of his family. 

They don’t have anywhere to be today. Din lets himself relax, and eventually, he falls back asleep. 

-

That day, and the two days after, pass too quietly. It sets Corin on edge. He knows nothing good could be coming for them. The anxiety from the bar fight never really leaves. 

_Or maybe_ . A small part of him hopes. _They’re really free after all._

But Corin knows that is no more true than any other lie the empire might’ve told him. 

When they land on their next planet, Corin feels bad luck like hair standing up on the back of his neck. But the child is happy to be off the ship, and the Mandalorian seems completely unconcerned as they lower the bay doors. So he brushes his discontent aside, and smiles as the kid darts from the _Crest_ as soon as the ramp touches the ground.

The planet they’ve settled on for the time being is densely populated in only a few tightly contained areas. The colonies had been visible even from space as they orbited before landing. Like freckles on an otherwise unblemished surface. Beads on a string connected only by a single two way monitored flight path between them. They circled the planet like a necklace, lying close to the equator in carefully measured paces. 

Outside of these walled pockets is complete wilderness filled with undocumented animals and uncharted geography. It is not unrestricted to guests, but heavily protected from any harm they may cause. Perfect for laying low off the grid.

Biomes of every kind spread across the planet in massive swaths bordered by mountain ranges and rivers like a patchwork quilt. It's gorgeous from space and even more beautiful up close, Corin notes as he steps out to take his first fresh breath of air in days. 

The scenery is pretty enough to make him forget all about the nagging feeling in the back of his mind. They’ve landed a few clicks from the nearest city. The skyscrapers jut sharply up from the horizon like one solid pillar, the entire boundary filled to the brim and then up to the clouds. The settlement is far enough in the distance that it appears hazy and faded into the lavender purple sky. 

Aside from the city, all around them for as far as the eye can see, is grass. Grass, golden and green, that grows tall enough to reach Corin’s shoulders, not-quite concealing him completely. It flutters and sways with the breeze, creating waves and ripples that mimic the surface of water. The grass consumes everything, blanketing the slow rolling hills and hiding away any animal, predator or prey, that may live within it. The _Crest_ creates a depression in the golden sea, a miniature version of the pinprick city. 

The Mandalorian hangs behind near the ship while Corin takes off after the kid, more than happy to play a game of chase through the field. 

-

Din does a quick survey of their surroundings. Open plains and tall grass. He had purposefully landed the _Crest_ at the top of a small hill, giving them a better vantage point. The nearest City was eastward by at least a day on foot and hours by speeder bike. A river ran through the meadow half a mile to their south, but was completely hidden by the high grass. On their west-

A sudden sharp squeal from the child immediately pulls Din’s attention away from the scenery. He whips around, hand flying to the blaster on his hip. He pauses when he sees Corin throw the child into the air once more. The kid screams again, the ear-piercing pitch turning to giggles when he is safely caught. Din smiles and rolls his eyes underneath the helmet. 

“What?” Corin defends with a beaming smile, tucking the kid into his chest. “He wanted to see over the wheat.”

Din shakes his head, not bothering to conceal the fondness in the gesture, and turns around to head back into the ship. If they were going to stay here for a few days, they needed to make camp before nightfall.

It’s peaceful here. Not a permanent place to stay by any means, but maybe they could afford to stop a few days. There had been no signs on the Empire on their tail since the beginning, and with air traffic so tightly confined to the airways, it would be easy to spot anyone headed their way. 

Here they could rest.

  
  
  


\------------

_Ten Months Earlier_

_He mumbled nonsense. His mouth moving with no thought. The words were barely audible let alone decipherable._

_There was a bright light shining in his eyes. There was a man, more than one maybe, somewhere inside the room. He couldn’t see them behind the light. He had no idea where he was, or what's going on._

_His head felt airy, fuzzy, blurry. Every train of thought took a little too long to come to fruition. He was beginning to think something might be wrong with him. He was in a lot of physical pain, that’s for sure. Every tug against his bindings reminded him of his broken wrist. Every breath caused a movement of broken ribs._

_But beyond the pain, and the cloud, there are singular points. Questions. Needs._

_Where’s Din? Where’s the kid? Are they here? Are they hurt?_

_He could find out everything else later. He just needed to know they’re okay._

_“Wh-where-” he cut himself off, almost throwing up when he tried to talk. He swallowed and tried again. “Where’s Din?”_

_The voices stopped talking. The room went silent aside from his labored breathing._

_“Who is Din?” The voice asked._

_He swallowed a few more times and smacked his dry lips together. His mouth felt like sandpaper and his tongue a lead weight. He tried to clear his throat but couldn’t even manage that. His muscles were putty, his bones brittle graphite. Through sheer desperation, he found his voice. “Din. The Mandalorian._ My _Mandalorian. Where is he?”_

_As he finds himself, the clouds in his mind start to recede. The world around him becomes a little more clear, a little more coherent. Memories start flooding back to him._

_The fire. The kidnapping. The torture._

_Jax._

_“We were hoping_ you _could tell_ us _,” The voice sneered just out of view. It’s so close. If he had an inch more in his bindings, he could reach out and touch them. Strangle them. But that answer was all the information he needed. They weren't here. They were still safe._

_He took a deep breath even though it caused fire to spread across his chest. “F-fuck you.”_

_-_

_“What is your name?”_

_His head lolled forward, chin thumping against his chest. At the sound of the voice, he pulled his head up and blinked against the light. He couldn’t see anything. The voice was coming from nowhere._

_“What is your name?”_

_It took him a second to process. To understand the question. He had to push the answer through numb lips and an unresponsive tongue. He was so tired._

_“Cee…” He frowned. That wasn’t quite right. The right track, but not the answer. His name had a C in it._

_C is a letter. He knew it was a letter because it was the first thing he could write. He remembered his mother pushing a pencil into his small uncoordinated hand._

Corin _, she had said to him._ That’s your name. Like this C-O-R-I-N. 

_“Corin,” he said at last. “My name is Corin Djarin.” He let his head fall forward again, and his eyes fell shut. He had answered their question, maybe they’d leave him alone. He wanted to sleep. He was just so tired. So so tired._

_He heard an angry grunt. A hiss and the sharp sound of a slap. White hot pain raced across his face. It bloomed like a match and died just as quickly. He flinched away from the contact._

_“Send him through again.”_

_-_

_A light flicked on and he jerked awake. The world around him was too bright. There was nothing beyond the braces on his shins and the cuffs on his wrists and the chair he was pressed into._

_“What is your name?”_

_It took him too long to process. Too long to respond. Too long to remember how his mouth worked and what speech was._

_There was a rupture of pain against his cheek. There was a starburst behind his eyes. He sat up straight in his chair._

_“What is your name?!” The question came again, harsher, sharper._

_“What is my name…” He mumbled, letting the question tumble around in his head. “Name. What is my name…” the word began to lose meaning as he repeated it to himself over and over trying to figure out what the question meant._

_Name? He had a Name. What_ was _his name?_

_He must have said that out loud, because he got an answer to his question._

_“Your name is CT-113.”_

_CT-113. He nodded. That sounded familiar._

_“C-cee tee…” he said, clearing his throat. He shuffled in his chair and pulled at his restraints. “Cee-tee one th-thirteen. My name is Cee…” He trailed off. Unable to finish the question. There was a slight pinch in his elbow and then he drifted off again. Eyes falling shut. World going dark._

_-_

_Jax knocked on the door and then entered without waiting for the reply. He had been too busy to oversee the reconditioning process himself, and instead letting one of his more reputable interrogators take charge._

_CT-113 was a lead to the Child, yes, but not their most important one. Jax was spending all of his time trying to recover the cold trail. If he found that, the trooper was useless to him._

_But still, it was a good habit to regularly check-up on the work of subordinates._

_The reports Jax had received from the information specialist had told of nothing except complete obedience. Which he knew to be a lie. Jax had dealt with CT-113 personally when the trooper was first taken aboard. He was everything_ except _compliant. The pristine reports were the reason why Jax was here in the first place. He wanted to know what was really going on._

_In place of his prisoner, he found a perfect stormtrooper._

_Jax roughly grabbed CT-113’s chin, tilting his head up to meet his eyes. They were completely blank. Not a single thought behind them, disobedient or otherwise._

_He whirled around onto the interrogator. “I said make him talk, not_ break _him! Look what you’ve done! He’s useless to me now.”_

_Jax had never conducted the reconditioning process himself, but he knew its effects quite well. He had seen beautiful results come from the process, and he had seen disasters. Like this one. Potential wells of information pushed past their mental limits and locked down by the very program made to open them. Their memories wiped clean, like clearing the data files on a droid. Some of them recovered, given enough time. Others were lost causes entirely, foaming at the mouth and seizing under bright lights._

_This one though… Jax recalled the Mandalorian’s attachment to the stormtrooper. CT-113 might not have been entirely useless yet. An idea spun a web in the back of his mind._

_The interrogator shook, terrified by the delayed anger from Jax. With a wave of his hand, he was dismissed and scattered out the door. Jax turned back to CT-113._

_The trooper stood with absolute military precision. Back ramrod straight, feet shoulder width apart, hands tucked behind his back, eyes always pointed forwards._

_Jax circled him, searching for any impurity, any imperfection. “What is your name?”_

_"CT-113,” Was the immediate reply._

_“Who are you?” Jax smiled, satisfied with the unintentional results. Yes, this was a blip in his plan. But this might just work out for the better._

_“I am a stormtrooper.” The soldier’s voice was inflectionless, emotionless, devoid of all self-awareness or question._

_“What is your purpose?”_

_“To serve the Empire.” His mind was nothing but a blank slate. An empty mold for Jax to shape any way he wanted._

_“Good.” Jax stopped and stood in front of the trooper, meeting his blank blue eyes. He had his bait, now all he had to do was wait for the Child to come to him. “Let’s begin.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew well, we're in the endgame now folks. I've got one, maybe two chapters left. Ch 6 is already halfway written which was one of the reasons why this chapter took so long. But hopefully since I don't have another 5 midterms in the next week, I'll actually have time to write and can get it up sooner. Thanks for sticking with me! 
> 
> Summary of flashback:  
> Corin is interrogated. The reconditioning process leaves his brain like scrambled eggs to the point where he remembers nothing. Jax was busy tracking down the child and he's not happy when he sees what they've done. He wanted information, not an empty headed drone. Jax decides to work with what he had and gets the idea to use Corin for bait. (and maybe he's got something else planned too??)
> 
> Come yell at me on Tumblr! My user is Tired_Tatum


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad Luck strikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta for this chapter, Chemical Unrest. Thanks for catching my thousand and one mistakes. I guess that's what I get for staying up until 7:30am writing. Oh well. Hope y'all like this chapter!

_Eight Months Earlier_

_Corin. His name was Corin. He had a son and a husband. He had a home. And a ship. And a cat. And an entire tribe of Mandalorians to protect him._

_He wore stormtrooper armor, but he was not a stormtrooper. Not anymore. He might’ve been once, but that was long behind him._

_Corin wasn't exactly sure how he got here, but he knew he had to get back to the kid. His son and his Mandalorian were the only things that mattered._

_He had to survive to get back to them._

_So he tried to blend in. Take orders. Follow instructions. Keep his head down. He knew how to be a stormtrooper. Acting the part came as natural as breathing._

_The ramrod straight posture that had taken Din months to coax out of him. The instinct to say “Roger that” when an order was given, which rubbed Paz the wrong way until Raga finally talked to him about it. The timed march of synchronized steps. The military efficiency of putting on and taking off the white armor, even able to do it one-handed. Knowing exactly where each clasp and buckle pressed uncomfortably against the black undersuit._

_It was more familiar to Corin than freedom._

_He had been a stormtrooper for longer than he had been his own man. And now here he was, back in the perfectly white plastisteel with no memory of how he got here._

_But he had gotten a taste of what the outside was like. A calm, domestic life. And after that, nothing could persuade him to come back here. When the opportunity struck, he would run. He would find them. He would get back to them. No matter how long it took._

_He never got the opportunity._

_He drew attention from the wrong people. He was pulled aside by a Sith acolyte: Carnor Jax._

_Corin knew he was beaten before he had even started. That didn’t stop him from fighting back._

_The interrogation room was bright, all of its light focused on where Corin was strapped to the table, already sustaining bruises from the trooper whose jaw he broke._

_When Jax walked in, Corin almost wanted to laugh. He’d never met Jax, but the overdramatic regalia was enough to clue Corin in to his identity. Corin already knew he would be punished as a traitor, why not add contempt to the list? “Your helmet looks like melted plastic. Get too close to a lightsaber?”_

_Jax didn’t say anything, and Corin was massively disappointed. All the rumors he had heard about Jax’s infamous temper fell flat. He wasn’t nearly as entertaining as Corin wanted._

_“If you were going for intimidating, you missed it by a mile. You look like a royal guard fucked a Hutt,” Corin spat, his saliva landing on the meticulously cleaned red armor. Jax completely ignored him, moving instead to the monitors out of Corin’s view._

_Whatever it was that Jax found, didn’t make him happy. He grunted. Corin heard the sound of a fist slamming against a table._

_Anger. Rage. Desperation._

_All things Corin was very familiar with since he had woken up in a strange place. He wanted to make Jax angry. Anger made for sloppy mistakes and maybe, just maybe, Corin would have enough good luck to slip through._

_He listened closely, only able to make out bits and pieces of conversation._

_“Broke reconditioning? How?” Jax’s voice was furious. Hissed through clenched teeth and a clamped jaw._

_Reconditioning. The word filled Corin’s veins with ice water. Was that why he didn’t remember how he got here?_

_“I-I don’t know sir. But most of his memories are present. As far back as early childhood.”_

_He had to run. He would rather be beaten than sent to the lower levels. Patrols sent down to guard prisoners reported endless blood curdling screams, floating black probe droids like angels_ _of death, broken memories distorted and bent until they disappeared entirely._

_He couldn't, he wouldn't, forget his son. Or Din. They were both as much part of himself as his name._

_Corin needed to get out of here. Anger. Anger would be the key. Make Jax mad, distract him from worse tortures._

_Jax stepped back into view. Corin sized him up. This guy was shorter than Paz but broader than Din. His suit was a mix of black and reds, an overdramatic cape spilling behind him in a failed imitation of Darth Vader. In his hand was a short-staff duel tipped with vibroblades._

_“A sword? Seriously, that’s your weapon of choice? Did you run out of kyber crystals?” Corin meant to antagonize, but his voice trembled with insecurity and fear. Not of Jax, Corin had sparred with Paz too often to be intimidated by size. No, Corin was afraid of the long dark tunnels with a chair at the end of them. Of losing himself to drugs and hallucinations._

_“Shut up,” Jax growled and took a step towards the chair. That’s it. Get him mad._

_“You know,” Corin laughed. “You wouldn’t need to put abs on your armour if you actually had them.”_

_Jax punched him. The force of it split open his cheekbone. “Shut. Up.”_

_Corin took several deep breaths to recollect himself. He could block out the pain. He had to stay strong. For the child. For Din._

_Corin looked up and glared into the visor. Black ringed in red. “What do you want from me?”_

_Jax straightened, his hands clasped behind his back. “The Child,” he said. “And you’re going to give him to me.”_

_Corin leaned forward against his bindings, blue eyes bright and furious. “You’ll have to kill me first.”_

_Jax chuckled darkly. “We’ll see about that.”_

_A wall, unyielding and invisible slammed Corin back against the chair. He felt a pressure build behind his temples. It built, growing until Corin was sure his very skull would split open. He was dying from the inside out._

_His screams could be heard from the bridge of the Destroyer._

_-_

_Jax walked out of the room, brushing his hands against the fabric of his pants. He turned to the nearest trooper._

_“Take him down reconditioning. And this time,” Jax grabbed their collar, pulling the guard close to his helmet, “don’t touch the subconscious.” He dropped the trooper. They jumped into action, fumbling to open the door and retrieve the prisoner._

_Jax turned to leave the hall. Almost as an afterthought he added, “If I hear you wiped him again, you’ll_ wish _you were dead.”_

_\---------------_

The iodine tablet fizzes and dissolves into the cloudy water. The child laughs and swirls his hand in the bucket playing with the bubbles. 

Corin takes a deep breath of the fresh air around him.

The grass rustles as it sways in the wind. The birds chirp and chitter. The creek bubbles over the rocks and nooks in the land. 

The bucket of water he was sent to gather turns from a cloudy brown to perfectly clear as the tablet purifies any imperfections. When it’s finished, Corin picks up both the child and the bucket to make his way back to the ship. 

The child is happy and energetic from a night of restful sleep. He climbs out of Corin’s arms to perch up on his shoulder. Corin shakes his head fondly and keeps his hand around the child’s waist to keep from falling. As they walk through the grass, the kid reaches out to touch the top of it with his tiny claws, giggling at the feeling. 

The Mandalorian is waiting for them when they reach the small clearing made by the ship. He’s kneeling over a small fire, stirring whatever food he had found inside of the ship.

Corin smiles to himself over the domesticity of it all. Who would’ve guessed a bounty hunter knew how to cook? The scent of the spicy food zings his nose even from where he’s standing, and the child squeals in happiness. It must be something the Mandalorian makes regularly enough for the child to recognize and enjoy. 

Corin walks closer to the campfire, careful not to startle the hunter. They both felt safer here, but their guard was always up no matter where they were. 

“I got the water you needed,” Corin says, crouching next to the Mandalorian. The child easily climbs from Corin’s shoulder to the hunter’s, leaning in to press his forehead against the side of his father’s helmet. The Mandalorian leans into the touch, reaching up with his free hand to support the child’s back. 

“Hello to you too, ad’ika,” he says. There is fondness in his gentle touches and kind words. Corin doesn’t need to see behind the helmet to read him. Yet he’s still surprised when the Mandalorian pulls him in for a keldabe kiss as well. 

Corin’s hand comes up to rest against the cool beskar of the helmet, allowing himself sink into the feeling of security and family. He lets his eyes drift close. He takes a deep breath, wanting so badly to feel that he belonged. He could let himself imagine, in this snip of a moment, that the Mandalorian really loved _him_ and not the ghost of another man.

“Thank you,” the hunter says, and then pulls away to take the bucket from Corin’s hand. 

Corin clears his throat, trying to will away the heat in his cheeks. “O-of course.” Corin quickly shifts his focus from the hunter to the food he was cooking. 

“What’s this? Smells… interesting.” After living on ration packets for at least the last eight months, Corin wasn’t sure he could palette anything more than dried jerky. The last incident with the sugar sweet candy at their most recent pitstop made him wary to try anything new. 

The Mandalorian picks up on his apprehension. He begins to stir in the water from the bucket. “It’s called _Gihaal._ Found some on the ship. Tastes better than it smells, I promise. But if it’s too much, we’ve got some bland rations.” The Mandalorian stops for a moment to look at Corin over his shoulder. “You had trouble adjusting to flavor when you first started traveling with us. And Mandalorian food is known for being… intense. I’d rather you eat something else than starve because you’re too polite to say anything. We’ve had this argument before.”

Corin can’t help but laugh at that. It does seem very in-character for him, even if he doesn’t remember it. 

It doesn’t take long for the food to finish. Apparently, it was already precooked; it just needed to be reheated and hydrated. The Mandalorian dishes out three portions, a half size for the kid. Corin takes his own, sniffing with mild horror when the odor hits his nose. Neither the hunter or the child seem to be perturbed in the slightest. 

The child is shoving the food into his mouth as though he hadn’t eaten just a couple hours ago. The Mandalorian doesn’t touch his own plate and is watching Corin instead. 

“Oh!” Corin realizes. “Do you want me to go in the ship?” He had almost forgotten the hunter's need for privacy.

The Mandalorian hesitates a moment and then shakes his head. “No, here, turn around and sit.”

Corin complies immediately, not worrying in the slightest of what the Mandalorian could do while his back is turned. Corin figures the hunter would just lift the helmet and eat quickly, but instead he gets a shock to his system when he feels the Mandalorian sit down behind him. 

They’re back to back. Corin can feel the heat pouring into him. The beskar backplate and cloak do nothing to keep them separated. 

“This okay?” the Mandalorian asks. It’s all Corin can do to nod. 

There’s the sound of a faint hydraulic hiss and then the familiar helmet is set in the grass to their side. Corin stares at it, unable to quite comprehend what he’s seeing. He must stay quiet for a little too long because the Mandalorian gently taps his hip. “You alright back there?”

His voice sounds different without the vocabulator from the helmet. Soft, husky, kind, _human._ It’s so different from anything Corin had expected. It sounds like a memory. Like the voice that whispers into his hair after a nightmare. Like the mouth that murmurs praise against his skin. Like an easy conversation over breakfast.

Corin blinks and then turns back to his food. He has to clear his throat before he can speak. “You’re not worried I’ll turn around and see you?” Corin doesn’t know much about the creed, but everyone knew the helmets _never_ came off. It’s an integral part of who the hunter is as a Mandalorian. And yet here he is, trusting Corin, the enemy, with his very identity. 

“No,” the Mandalorian answers without hesitation. “Should I be?” His absolute trust makes Corin dizzy. 

When he can finally get his mouth to work, Corin answers. “N-no.” It sounds like a promise. He tries to relax, moving his shoulders away from his ears. He leans back into the Mandalorian's steady presence. He can hear the child still eating. He can feel the shift of weight from the hunter as he lifts the spoon to his mouth. 

Corin has to take several deep breaths to force his heart rate down to a manageable level. It takes an immense amount of willpower to refocus on his food, and even more to get past the smell. He lifts the food to his mouth and grimaces in anticipation. 

“Oh!” Corin opens his eyes. “That’s not half-bad!” He takes another bite, and another. Not realizing how hungry he had been. The Mandalorian chuckles, his shoulders shaking against Corin’s back. 

They finish the meal in silence, all three of them too hungry to speak. The food is delicious, and Corin even goes back for seconds, discreetly passing his plate to the Mandalorian to refill. 

When they’re finished, the child climbs into Corin’s lap, already falling into a food coma. Corin expects the Mandalorian to immediately put his helmet back on, but he doesn’t. Instead, he settles down and leans his head against Corin’s shoulder. Corin sits as still as he can.

“You know,” the Mandalorian breaks the comfortable silence. “You still tie your left shoe first.”

Corin snorts at the bizarre comment. “What?”

“Your left shoe? You tie it first. You did that before, too,” the hunter takes a deep breath. “And you clean blasters by starting with the barrel, which is still weird.”

“You don’t?” Corin asks, looking off into the distance. The sun is beginning to set. 

“No.” He feels the Mandalorian shake his head. “They don’t come apart that way.” 

“Oh,” Corin frowns. “The E-11’s do.”

“Which is why they’re shit,” the hunter grumbles with pure venom in his voice.

Corin laughs and disrupts the Mandalorian from where he’s settled. Instead of leaning back, the hunter sighs, sits up, and reaches for the helmet. There’s a click as it slides back into place. 

“We should get back inside,” the Mandalorian comments, standing. “There’s a storm rolling in.” The clouds loomed dark on the horizon, wind picking up and blowing them ever forward. The sun was nearly gone, the temperature falling with it.

“Oh.” Corin wants to stay out here a little longer. Wants to feel the Mandalorian’s heat against his back. Wants to hear that voice again. “Yeah, okay.” He stands, gathering the sleeping child in his arms. He takes the hunter’s outstretched hand and follows him into the ship.

-

Corin heads to the refresher while the Mandalorian puts the child to bed in his room. He only uses the standard five minutes and then changes quickly. When he steps out, he finds the Mandalorian putting away their dirty dishes. 

Corin just watches him for a moment, mesmerized by the way he moves with lithe grace and confidence, and yet as gentle as he would be with a newborn. Everything about him was contradictory. Corin wants to learn more about what makes the hunter tick. His past, his wants, his needs. 

Corin wishes he could be who the Mandalorian wants him to be. Maybe then he would be allowed to stay. Corin dreads the day the hunter realizes his memories will never come back. No one just breaks from reconditioning. No one ever recovered. What was lost, was lost permanently. 

Corin has found his home, but will he be allowed to stay if he never becomes the person he once was?

Pushing those thoughts aside, Corin moves into the main part of the room and sits on the bunk. “I can take the first watch?” he offers. 

The Mandalorian pauses and looks up. “Go to sleep, Corin. There’s no need to keep watch here. No one is coming during the storm.”

The weariness from the chaos of constant travel the last few weeks hits him at last. Corin is asleep before his head hits the pillow. 

-

_Corin runs through the house, bare feet against the wood floors. He leaps over the couch and nearly crashes into the table._

_“No!” he yells, laughing between heavy breaths. “Don’t you dare!” He dodges the icing as it comes flying from Din’s hand. It splats against the wall behind him. “Get away from me!” He takes off running again but Din is faster. He jumps and throws out an arm at the last minute sending them both tumbling to the floor._

_“Gev! Gev! I surrender!” Corin laughs, twisting out of Din’s hold._

_“Oh no, you’re not getting out of this that easy.” Din smears the hand full of icing all across Corin’s face, making sure to keep it out of his eyes. Corin yells and tries to fight back but Din has him pinned, it’s pointless. “Ad’ika!” Din calls. “Come get him!”_

_The tiny green menace squeals and runs over to his parents. He raises his hands and the entire mixing bowl floats in from the kitchen._

_“Uh, Ad’ika, not the whole thing.” Din warns. The bowl floats like a star destroyer, impending doom cast in its shadow. “No! Not the whole thing!” Din shouts, but it’s too late. The entire bowl, filled with icing and batter and flour and sugar, pours onto both men, covering them completely._

_The child screams in pure joy, jumping into the mess he’s made. Din coughs flour out of his face and wipes at his eyes. He glares over at the little green bean. “Traitor.”_

_Corin laughs so hard he cries._

-

Corin wakes from his dream to the sound of quiet talking. He feels more refreshed than he has in months. A small smile on his face. He looks over to where the Mandalorian and the child are coloring on the floor. 

He’s not sure how long he had been asleep, but when he stands his muscles feel heavy and lethargic. 

“Good morning,” the Mandalorian greets. Corin smiles back. He can ask about the dream later, but he has a good feeling it was more than just that. 

-

The rest of the day passes in a familiar rhythm. Sure, it’s a little different now that they’re on a planet instead of in space, but it’s not too dissimilar from their daily routine stuck on the ship. 

Corin cleans, plays with the kid, talks with the Mandalorian, rechecks all their weapons, and goes through his training. 

The storm last night had raised the creek level, but other than that, the planet is at peace. Good luck at last. 

But Corin knows it can’t last forever. The unsettling feeling of bad luck has abated from when they first landed but it never went away entirely. 

The illusion of peace is broken with the echoing sound of a blaster shot. At first, Corin just thinks it’s just the Mandalorian cleaning his gun. But then it comes again. Corin grabs the child in his arms and runs up from the creek bed. The kid coos, frightened, and ducks his head into Corin’s shoulder. 

Corin can’t see anything but grass until he hits the clearing. His stomach drops, and his heart skips a beat. Dread and panic course through his system, adrenaline kicking in immediately. 

Jax. A looming figure of black and red, vibroblade staff held loosely in one hand. 

Corin jumps back into the grass. The child starts to sniffle, sensing his panic. Corin’s breathing comes in short gasps. He has to get to the Mandalorian. 

Another blaster shot comes from behind the wall of wheat and Corin knows he’s running out of time. He jumps into action, legs moving without thought, rushing around the clearing to the other side of the ship. He peeks through the grass and sees the Mandalorian huddled against the leg of the _Crest_. 

He breaks through the line of cover and rushes to the hunter's side.

“Get the kid in the closet!” the Mandalorian snaps and roughly shoves Corin up the open ramp. 

Corin obeys, rushing into the hull and across the room. He slams his fist into the button. The door snaps open. Corin sets the child down on the cot as gently as he can. The kid is crying, hiccupping and reaching out for his parent. He's terrified. Corin can’t leave him like this. 

Frantically, Corin’s eyes dart around the room for the kid’s favorite toy. A small stuffed blue krill. He grabs it and presses it into the kid’s hands. He leans down and leaves a gentle kiss on the small wrinkled forehead. “Stay safe, ad’ika. I’ll be right back.”

Corin takes a step back and snaps the door closed, making sure to press the second button. Beskar plates of armor slide down from the ceiling and click into place. Grabbing his blaster from the armory cupboard, Corin rejoins the Mandalorian outside. 

They’re both hunkered against the side of the ship. “Come on!” Corin hisses. “We can still get out of here!” He holds out his hand, urging the Mandalorian to follow him back up the ramp. 

“No!” the Mandalorian snaps. “He’ll crash the ship and kill us all.” He leans around the corner and fires off another shot but Jax blocks it with his sword. 

“This is pointless, Mando!” the Sith shouts. “Hand over the Child!”

The Mandalorian fires again, but his blaster hisses and jams. He hits it against his leg but nothing happens. It’s no use. Corin looks down at his own blaster and then back up at the hunter. 

He sees a resolution in his mind. He knows what he has to do. 

Corin knows he means nothing. Is nothing. Only a painful reminder of a lost past and impossible future. His hand moves of its own accord, coming up to rest against the shining beskar helmet. Pulling the Mandalorian in for what can only be described as a kiss. 

“Let me do this,” Corin says, resigned to his fate. He pulls away before the Mandalorian can stop him.

“Corin! Stop! Wait!” The hand reaching for his wrist never makes contact. Corin jumps out from behind the ship, facing Jax head on.

He lurches forward, blaster firing. 

Corin is stopped dead in his tracks. A hand snaps around his throat. All the air leaves his lungs in one motion. He gasps, pulling at his own skin. Corin’s nails dig into fingers that aren’t there. He falls to his knees, vision blurring. His blaster falls from his hands. 

Jax steps forward. “CT-113. We meet again.” 

“Let him go!” the Mandalorian barks from behind the leg of the _Crest_. 

“This doesn’t concern you!” Jax’s helmet never moves focus from Corin’s face, still clawing for breath. 

“CT-113. You’ve been fantastic. No need to continue fighting, hmm? We’re both still on the same side, aren’t we?” Jax drops his hand and Corin falls to his hands and knees, coughing and gasping for breath. 

Jax slips off his helmet, letting it fall to the ground beside him. He watches Corin’s every move. Corin is still gasping for breath, but he manages to look up at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” he wheezes, his hand reaching for his blaster.

With an easy flick of fingers, the blaster is thrown to the side and out of Corin’s reach. It lands somewhere deep in the ocean of grass. 

“We both want what’s best for the Child, CT. He’s not safe here. Don’t you want him to be safe?” Jax coaxes. Corin doesn’t know what is happening. He glances back to the ship. Where’s the Mandalorian?

“He’s safe here! Not with you! He’s our son!” Corin yells. 

Jax narrows his eyes and grits his teeth. “ _Our_ ? Yours and the Mandalorian's? You think he really cares for you? You’re nothing more than a placeholder for him. You think you’re worth anything to him beyond the memories you _don’t_ have? Don’t kid yourself, CT-113,” Jax scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

Corin wants to deny it but he knows it's true. Knows that he doesn’t mean anything. It makes him pause. As much as he wants to argue, he can’t. 

The Mandalorian rushes out from behind the ship, a new blaster in hand, but he can’t even fire a single shot before Jax forces him still and silent with the force. Corin wants to reach out, to help him, but he’s pinned by Jax’s presence against the ship.

“He doesn’t care about you.” Jax points with his staff at the Mandalorian. “Not in the way I do. I’m the one who’s really on your side here. Come with me. You would be more than just a _babysitter_. You would be my right hand,” Jax promises, holding out a hand, inviting Corin to his side. 

But Corin can’t take it. He knows this isn’t right. He knows this isn’t the best thing for the child. “Shut up.” Corin scrambles away from him.

Jax moves forward as Corin moves away. “Imagine the power you could have. With you and the Child by my side, we would rule the entire Empire. He’s the key to all of this. He is our doorway to the entire galaxy. The Child puts total control into the palm of our hands.” 

Corin shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. He knows it’s not right but something… else is keeping him in place. A lure. A seed of doubt. Something that he wants to fight against but tells him that Jax is telling the truth. Every instinct tells him otherwise. Corin can’t help but ask, “You want to take him? Train him?”

There had to be more, right? There had to be a reason for his doubt. For why he almost believed what Jax was saying. 

“I want him to become _more_. He’s meant for more. But I need you.” Jax’s words are like saccharine. Promising a greater life. 

“Me?” Corin doesn’t see where he plays into this at all. From his viewpoint, he’s nothing more than a way for Jax to get to the child. 

“Yes, CT. Don’t you see? None of this is possible without you.” Jax motions with his hand. “The Child trusts you. Loves you. The whole plan depends on your bond with the Child. That’s why I let you get kidnapped,” Jax says.

“ _Let me?”_ Corin’s confusion only grows. “But what about the convoy you sent after us? The one that disabled our ship?” 

“I needed the Mandalorian to think he had successfully _rescued_ you.”

Corin blinks, trying to take it all in. It had been a plan since the beginning. He can’t find the words to respond. 

“You have the Child’s trust. And now you can bring him to me, voluntarily. No harm will come to him. He will feel safe with one of his parents.”

“But…” Corin shook his head. He knew this wasn’t right. “ _We’re_ his parents. Me and the Mandalorian both.”

Jax stood up straighter. “The Mandalorian is lying to you. I bet he told you _he_ killed Gideon, didn't he?” Which is... true. It’s true the Mandalorian had said that _he_ had killed Gideon. Corin frowned. 

“The child did,” Jax corrected. “The child has darkness in him and without a proper teacher he could fall completely. Is that what you want?” Jax accuses, snapping in Corin’s face.

“No,” Corin defends, shaking his head vehemently.

“If the Jedi find out, they’ll kill him. They don’t care that he’s a kid. Do you want that to be your fault?” Jax crowds Corin’s space. 

“No! But—” Corin can’t defend himself, can’t argue, can’t even get more than a single word out. 

“He’s the safest from the New Republic with me! He would have an entire army to be his protection.” Jax’s voice turns from accusing to soft. “You only want what's best for him, don't you?”

Corin can’t argue with that. Of course he does. “Yes…”

“Then come with us.” Jax offers, holding out his hand again. 

Corin hesitates. He can’t take it. There’s a gap in this story. “But what about the Mandalorian?” Corin looks back over his shoulder again. At the man who’s held motionless by an invisible force. At the man who’s stolen his heart in a matter of days, who draws him in by a string tied to his soul. 

Jax yells in frustration. “Forget about the Mandalorian!” He waves his hand and suddenly the gap is filled. Corin _sees._ Like a holodrama played on double speed, the memory flicks by in his mind. 

_The Razor Crest flies off into space while Corin lays bleeding out against a wall in a back-alley. Bounty hunters,_ the Mandalorian is a bounty hunter _, blasting a hole into his stomach and leaving him to die._

“See?” Jax sneers. “He’s left you behind before. He’s hurt you before.” He waves his hand again and a new memory flashes before Corin has time to process the first one.

_The Mandalorian claps a hand onto his shoulder, thumb digging into his collarbone. Corin can feel it snap under the pressure._ Wasn’t it already broken? _His knees give out, and he collapses against Liita’s kitchen counter. When she walks in, he has to act like nothing happened._

“He cast you out of his family.”

_The Mandalorian stands tall._ Which one? It must be his Mandalorian. _“Not him. He's a damn Storm Trooper. We do not bring the enemy to our secret Covert.” He leads the group as they turn and leave him behind._

“He turned you over to the New Republic.”

_Corin is pushed forward into the custody of a rebel shock trooper, tattoo clear as day around his bicep. Corin can see the Mandalorian grin._ Even through the helmet? _“As long as you got my credits, Nedar.” Corin whips around, begging against the gag in his mouth to be let free._

“Don’t you see, CT-113? He’s been using you this entire time.” 

Corin sees more. Memory after memory. Distorted but still understandable. 

_The Mandalorian shoots. Blood splatters against Corin’s face. ST-2199, Corin’s friend, drops dead._

_Corin’s arm comes away covered in blood, jacket sleeve torn in two. The Mandalorian holds the blade._

_Corin kneels with a blaster against the back of his skull. He faces a room full of troopers. The Mandalorian holds the gun. An example is being made of him._

_They’re flying over a body of water. Corin is in full armor. The Mandalorian drops him. He sinks. He barely makes it to the shore alive._

_The child is sick. They need medicine. The Mandalorian trades Corin to slavers for the sake of the child without remorse or hesitation._

Corin’s mind reels with the information. It doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t make sense. Yet the proof is right there. 

“No…” Corin shakes his head, trying to sort what was real and what wasn’t. None of this made sense. The Mandalorian has been so kind, so gentle, so patient and understanding. Why would he have done those things? How could he? He wouldn’t. He would never. And that’s how Corin knows

There were still too many holes. Too many contradictions. Only bits and pieces had been restored to him. Only what Jax had wanted him to see. 

“No!” Corin struggles to regain his footing. Stumbling to his feet and falling again to his knees. Jax stands unafraid, cape billowing in the wind. Corin has nothing to defend himself. “You’re lying! This isn’t real!”

Jax takes a step forward. His shadow falling over Corin’s hunkered form. “He doesn’t love you.”

“We had a life! We were happy!” Corin desperately tries to cling to what little bits he knows to be true. The memories whispered in the darkness between sleep and awareness. He grasps for the pull he feels, has always felt, to the Mandalorian and his child.

“Is that what _you_ remember? Or is that what the Mandalorian told you?”

“I… I had a dream. It felt real. I don't…”

Jax’s sword comes up under Corin’s chin, forcing him to look up. It digs into his throat, drawing a drop of blood. Jax’s gaze is intense, even through the helmet. “You can’t trust him. Look at what he’s done. He’s been using you since the beginning! You’re nothing to him.” 

Jax drops the edge of his sword and reaches out a hand. “But you could be everything with me. You could have influence. Money. _Power._ Isn’t that what you want?” Corin doesn’t reach back.

What _does_ he want? 

He wants peace. The sun on his face and a laughing child in the backyard. A garden filled with peppers. A cat that curls around his ankles. A fireplace with an oversized armchair. A blizzard in the winter that keeps them in the house for days. 

He wants safety, protection, to be included, to feel worthy. He wants to never be left behind. He wants to be _loved_. 

Corin looks at the frozen Mandalorian. Held in place by solid air. Unable to move or defend himself at all.

“No. That’s what _you_ want.” Corin grabs the blade of the sword, slicing open his palm but gaining the advantage. He takes Jax by surprise, spinning the blade. It drops from Jax’s grasp and into Corin’s hand. 

In his shock, Jax drops his hold on the Mandalorian. Corin lurches up with the blade at the same time the Mandalorian fires his blaster. The sword pierces up and through Jax’s abdomen. The sudden change in position causes the blaster shot to miss its intended target. It hits Corin instead.

-

Din’s heart stalls as he watches Corin drop. Blood sprays with the force of the impact. The two fall to the grass in a heap. 

Din sprints forward, heart now pounding in his ears. _Oh god. He shot Corin. He_ _shot Corin._ He falls to his knees, fearing all of his worst nightmares had come true. That Corin would die by his hands. 

_His fault._

There’s no time to even check Corin’s condition. 

Jax is still alive, his hands fumbling with the sword stuck into his side. He yanks it free and lashes out in Din’s direction. His swipes are frantic and crazed, side to side. Din has to duck and jump out of the way. Each attack sending him farther from Corin body.

“Give me the Child!” Jax screams, eyes wild. He is beyond desperate. He’s insane. 

Din uses his vambrace to block the next hit, ducking under and igniting his flamethrower. Jax is too quick. He uses the force and _pushes_. Din goes flying, fire catching on the dry grass. His back slams against the hull of the Crest, the child inside cries out for its parents. Jax and Din both turn at the noise. 

“So that’s where you’re hiding him.” Jax stalks forward, wincing around the gash in his side. As he passes, Din jumps forward, intending to tackle the Sith. Instead, he's forced backwards again and held there. 

“My Child!” Jax calls. He pays no mind to Din, who’s cursing him in every language under the stars, as he walks up the ramp. “Where are you?”

Din kicks out against his invisible bonds, watching helplessly. Corin still hasn’t moved. Which is _bad. Very, very bad._ His gut sinks.

The fire from his flamethrower had caught on the grass. It kicks up in the wind and spreads like a disease. It consumes everything it touches and right now, that includes them. 

Din tries, and tries, to push against whatever is holding him down. He can’t let his family die like this. He won’t let the child be taken like this. He slams his fists against the metal, pushing, pulling, fighting, tearing. He screams. 

Frustrated. Desperate. Helpless. 

With a gasp, he falls to the ground. Din wastes no time climbing into the ship. His heart stops at what he sees. 

His child, his foundling, his son. Eyes squinting closed, hands out in front of him. Jax floats in the air. 

Like the day with the mudhorn. 

Din does not waste his opportunity this time. He jerks the vibroblade dagger from its sheath and plunges it deep into the junction of armor. Flesh and bone give way to beskar. Din twists the knife and buries it deeper. 

Jax screams. Broken. Defeated. 

The child drops his hands, and Jax falls to the ground. Din twists the knife again for good measure and then yanks it free. 

His own heart burns with the need for vengeance, for justice, to scream out against the pain and unfairness of it all. It overtakes any other thought. This is personal. He tosses the knife behind him and wraps his hands around Jax’s throat. He feels cartilage collapse and blood vessels burst. He wants blood.

Jax barely puts up a fight. And even when his clawing hands drop lifeless, Din doesn’t stop. He keeps squeezing, keeps pushing, keeps pressing. The anger is visceral, all-consuming. Jax took Corin. His _riduur._ His _kar’ta_. His—

A tiny hand pulls at his pant leg. 

Din is jerked back into the present. The child is screaming out for him, crying and reaching to be held, comforted. Din has blood on his hands. He yanks off his gloves and sits back on his heels. Din reaches for his son, tucking him close to his chest. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m _sorry._ ”

And Din suddenly realizes. _Corin_. Corin is still out there. 

He holds the child close as he runs from the ship and across the flaming field. The fire is growing larger, more out of control. They don't have much time.

Corin hasn’t moved. 

Din drops to his knees. There’s blood everywhere. Most of it, all of it, comes from the blaster wound across his temple. Din’s breath comes in short gasps. 

A pulse. He needs to find a pulse. His bare fingers search the side of Corin’s neck, pressing in against bruised skin. 

He finds it, faint, but still there. 

Din laughs, high and hysterical and full of overwhelming relief. He sets the child down by his side and digs through his tool belt to find the bacta. It's not enough. He knows it won’t be enough. But he has to try. 

“Please,” Din begs, gently dabbing the medicine into the wound. “Please, I can’t—” His throat starts to close up even at the thought. He has to make this work. Corin has to live. 

The bottle is empty. The child is whimpering on Corin’s shoulder. Din sits and waits for a heartbeat. Two. 

Nothing happens. 

Din pushes the exhausted child towards Corin’s bloodied head. “Heal him,” he begs, desperation in every syllable. 

The child whines and tucks himself into Corin’s neck. The blood tainting his brown robes. The kid taps Corin’s cheek and begins to cry when his eyes don’t open. “ _Heal him.”_ Din’s voice is urgent, pushing the kid a little closer. 

Din checks Corin’s pulse again, feeling it grow weaker. The bacta can only do so much. They’re beyond medicine. They need a miracle.

The fire around them is closing in.

“Come on, ad’ika, _please_ . I’ll never ask you to do it again. I promise. Just _please._ Ad’ika, heal him. Fix him. _Please.”_ Din’s voice breaks, collapsing in on itself. His shoulder’s wrack with sobs as he pulls Corin’s limp body onto his lap. Head held gently in his hands. “ _I can’t lose him again.”_

He ducks his helmet into Corin’s shirt, fingers wrapping into the fabric. Din can feel the heat from the fire as it begins to draw closer. It devours everything in its path. The beautiful gold and green grass burnt to ash and dust. They can’t wait any longer. 

The child closes his eyes and reaches up to touch his hand against Corin’s forehead. Din weeps with relief. “Yes! Yes, you’re doing such a good job, ad’ika. Keep going.”

The skin begins to knit together. The tissue and bone underneath concealed by the slow progression of regrowth. The child grunts in concentration. Din just watches, unable to help in any substantial way. His son drops his hand and collapses backwards, completely drained. Din doesn’t wait. He pulls Corin up into his arms. One supporting his shoulders, the other under his knees. The kid is passed out against Corin’s chest. 

“We’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you both. We’re safe.” Din doesn’t even realize the words are falling from his mouth until after he says them. Both pillars of his life are balanced on a razor thin edge. He has to keep himself together. Just make it to the ship. 

Din has to step over Jax’s body to get to the child’s closet. He sets them both down as gently as he can. The fire outside is building, and they need to get the hell off this planet. Yet even in his haste he makes sure to tuck a blanket around the two of them. They can wash out the blood later. 

Din drags Jax’s body from the ship and leaves it as fuel for the fire. It leaves a trail of blood across the metal floor. He doesn’t spare it even a second glance, climbing the ladder, and relying on muscle memory to start up the _Crest_. 

It takes fifteen minutes until he’s far enough away from the planet to make the jump to hyperspace, destined for the Covert. 

And when it’s all said and done, Din takes a deep breath. His hands are still bare when he pulls off the helmet. His pulse is still racing. His boot is still tapping nervously against the floor. He takes another deep breath, and another, until his emotions are back under control. He needs to clean up the ship, and his _aliit_. 

Din grabs the supplies and tries not to think. It doesn’t work. He scrubs at Jax’s blood staining the floor and thinks how he had been forced to watch as Jax manipulated Corin. As he spun webs around him and waited for Corin to fall in. As he lied and used the Force to put god knows what into Corin’s head. 

And Corin had almost fallen for it. Had almost believed him. 

Din takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down but it’s not working. He looks over his shoulder to see Corin and the Child still sleeping. They were both still, too still. They were both more than just exhausted. It was Din’s fault. All of this was his fault. 

He had come so close to losing everything. 

He rubs away more blood. Din cleans, and cleans, and cleans. Until the floor is sparkling and it almost looks like nothing had happened. Like no one had died here. Like he hadn’t almost just lost his family. He swallows down his guilt.

_Almost._ That is what he had to hand on to. They came close, but nothing had happened. They were safe. The enemy had been defeated and they had reached the other side. Worse for wear, sure. But alive.

Jax dying may have been Corin’s last chance at getting his memories back, but Din doesn’t really care. He’s still Corin. He’s here and home. That’s what really matters. 

Din takes a deep breath and starts removing his armor. After he’s showered and changed, Din settles in by Corin and the child. 

Corin’s hand has stopped bleeding. Whatever the child had done had stopped that much, but it is still very much an open wound. Din sets to work, using what little bacta and bandages they had left. He presses a kiss to each knuckle before putting the hand back on Corin’s chest. 

Din uses a wet rag to wipe away any remaining blood that sticks to the Child’s skin. He tries to be as gentle as he possibly can. The green skin looks so fragile and pale. Din’s heart twists. His hands shake as he rinses the rag and starts again on Corin. There’s just _so much_ _blood_. It’s a miracle his _Cyare_ survived as long as he did. 

Din checks his pulse again. Relieved with every heartbeat. 

When the blood is gone, Din begins to settle. The adrenaline leaves him weak and shaky. 

Din settles back against the wall. All he can do now, is wait. 

-

The world around him is hazy, but Corin would recognize it anywhere. He’s in the child’s room. The scribbled drawings hang on the wall. The three of them, together and happy. 

But Corin isn’t alone. A light warm weight is settled over his chest, and he doesn’t even need to glance down to know it’s the child. There’s a hand holding his own. 

When Corin looks over he sees a nervous wreck of a man, hunched over himself, clinging to Corin's hand between both of his as though his life depends on it. 

Scraggly brown hair, shining beskar, a beautiful smile framed by a dimple. Brown eyes with laugh lines crimping the edges. Beautiful plump lips that have given half a million kisses. Corin can map the entire face from memory.

“Din?” Din’s head snaps up. Corin’s voice is weak. “ _Din._ ” He tries to feebly lift a hand. 

Din meets him halfway, pulling Corin’s hand up to touch his scruff covered cheek. The texture is coarse against his skin. And yet it’s familiar. It _is_ familiar. 

He remembers. He remembers all of it. The good, the bad. How could he have forgotten those brown eyes and that smile? 

Din laughs, tears in his eyes. He leans forward and pulls Corin in, hand firmly against the nape of his neck, foreheads resting against each other. They both just stay there for a moment. Listening to the other breathe. 

Corin is crying. Or maybe they both are. Corin leans forward that extra half inch and seals it with a kiss. 

The Child coos happily from where he’s been sleeping against Corin's chest. He crawls up to be near them both. He tucks himself between his two parents. Content. Safe. Home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jax showed up! Our family is safe! Barely. I hope y'all enjoyed reading this as much as I loved writing it. There's only one chapter left. It's fairly short and it'll be up (hopefully) this weekend.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories are sorted. Trauma is dealt with. They figure out how to move on. An end is reached and a new start begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Arboreal for being my beta this time around. Really appreciated your feedback!

Hyperspace. Endless and enduring. It seems to Corin he spends most of his life in it rather than out of it. The universe collapses down until it contains nothing but the Razor Crest and their family of three. Corin’s entire world contained in a thin duristeel box. 

They’re safe and yet completely defenseless. They have nothing to do but wait, rest, and recover. It gives Corin the time to think. A little too much time.

Corin wants, wishes, hopes, that things can go back to the way they were before. But he’s not naïve enough to believe that nothing has changed. No amount of wishing will take away the imprint left by the reconditioning. 

He feels like a different person. 

And maybe he is. How could anyone expect him to walk away from this unaffected? 

Din is exhausted. He’s tucked against Corin’s side, snoring softly into his shoulder, legs tangled together. The child lays on his chest, tiny claws resting over Corin’s heart. Corin knows he should be sleeping too. Force knows he needs it. 

His mind spins with doubts and endless possibilities and worries. Where do they go from here? Where exactly does a Corin fit? Halfway between the man he used to be and the man Jax had created. 

Corin runs his fingers through Din’s hair. He presses a kiss into his hairline. It’s both the first and hundredth time he’s done it. The picture of Din’s sleeping face is brand new and yet as familiar as the age old scar above his brow. Corin takes a deep breath. 

Shampoo, the kind they bought from the old woman who set up her stall every Saturday in the market. They never needed more shampoo but she always needed the money. And they bought a new bottle every week until they had so many extra that they had to send an entire carton back to the covert. It brings a smile to Corin’s face. The old lady never minded watching Ad’ika when they had to run a job or just needed a night to themselves. 

They’ll probably never see her again. Going back to that planet, to their home, is too dangerous. Jax might be dead but the other imperials working under him could still be after them. Would always be after them. With the child, their life would always be a never ending game of cat and mouse. Whether that cat was the Empire, or the New Republic. 

Corin sighs and settles back against the pillows. 

“Stop thinking so much, Cyare,” Din says, eyes still closed and feigning sleep. 

Corin swallows, the sound of it too loud in the quiet room. “Where do we go from here?” He’s almost scared of the answer. Do they start at square one? Do they try to build their relationship from the broken foundations? Do they try and act like nothing has changed?

They haven’t had time to talk about this, about their future. Corin had woken up and Din had practically passed out immediately after. 

Din reaches up and sets a hand on the child’s back. Corin watches as he runs his thumb back and forth across the old robes. “We take it one day at a time. As long as you’re here, we can get through this.” 

It is not a good enough answer. But it will have to be. 

-

Corin wakes slowly. The hyperdrive whines and the child snores away on his chest. He hasn’t moved an inch from last night. The space at his side has grown cold and the weight across his legs is absent. 

“Din?” Corin calls, quietly enough that he won’t wake the child. The room is empty and what little Corin can see of the hull through the door is also unoccupied. His pulse kicks up. It’s irrational. He knows that. But Corin never actually saw Jax die. He had just assumed. But maybe he was still on the ship. Maybe he had found them again. Maybe there was a chance he-

Din peaks around the corner, hair still dripping from the shower. “Did you need me?” There’s a soft smile on his face and a curious tilt to his head. He reaches up with the towel to shake out his hair. 

Corin takes a deep breath and then puts on a smile. He shakes his head. “No. Just wondering where you went.”

They land at the covert later that afternoon. It’s still in the same place as it was ten months ago. Buried under a sprawling city in long forgotten tunnels. While the dense population was a major inconvenience for trying to avoid prying eyes, there’s something to be said about how easy it is to fade into anonymity among crowds of people. An entire society hidden in plain sight. 

Din takes the lead through the winding streets. He takes several wrong turns, presumably to throw anyone off their trail. Corin can’t help but throw suspicious glances over his shoulder as they wander through the city. He stays close, never more than a foot away. The child is slung across his chest in a worn carrier fashioned from fabric interwoven with beskar. The protective hand Corin keeps over his chest is unnecessary, but it helps him settle.

No one follows them. No one is coming. But Corin can never be too careful. Jax, or his subordinates, could be right around the corner. He found them twice, what's to stop it from happening again?

Corin almost runs into Din’s back when they stop in front of an old alleyway. They both take a step in behind the curtain, concealing them from view. Neither dare to go down any further. Din’s shoulders take in a heavy breath and then release in a deep sigh. “I haven’t been back in months. I didn’t exactly leave on good terms. I don’t know what they’re going to say.” Din’s voice is quiet, unwilling to voice his insecurities, but Corin has always been able to see right through him.

Corin reaches over to take Din’s hand. “I’m right here.” They still need to talk about this. But they can’t. Not until they’re safe. 

The child coos and peaks out from the lip of his sling. “You ready to see your  _ ba’vodu’e _ ?” Corin teases. “I bet they’ll be excited to see you.” The child chirps, ears perking at the familiar word. 

Din huffs a laugh and the tension breaks. “Of course he’s happy to see Paz. They’re both terrors. They get along too well.” Corin rolls his eyes fondly and gives a nudge to encourage Din down the stairs. 

The guard at the door gives them a nod as they pass through. Though none of them had been there in months, Din’s shining silver armor and a big eared green baby were hard to forget. 

Silence falls when the trio walk into the main corridor. Nearly every helmet turns to look at them. Corin shrinks behind Din’s shoulder, putting a wall of armor between him and the kid, and whatever angry mando takes offense at him being there. Din straightens his shoulders and shifts his feet. 

Corin knows he’s an  _ aruetii _ . Now more than ever. He’s never tried to deny it. He was born and raised and reconditioned to be loyal to the enemy. Corin has no right to be here and the memory of Din?, Paz?, A voice, exiling him echoes in his mind. 

But they have nowhere else to go. Corin’s hand presses down against his chest, securing the child. His eyes dart to the exit, ready to run. 

“Corin?  _ Vod’ika?  _ Is that you?” 

Corin turns at the new voice as he’s nearly bowled over by Raga. “We thought we lost you.” Her voice is more emotional than Corin thinks he’s ever heard it. “After the fire, Din went off the radar and we all thought…” Helmets uncomfortably shift to look at each other. Raga lets him go and takes a step back to hold his shoulders at arm’s length. She glances over her shoulder at Paz. 

Din turns until his chest is supporting Corin’s shoulder, a shield for Corin to take comfort from. Corin smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I’m home now.” 

Raga says nothing, just looks at him for a moment too long. Then she breaks and passes a gentle hand over the kid’s head. “You were gone for too long, ad’ika.” 

Paz takes a step forward and settles a heavy hand on Din’s shoulder. Corin nearly flinches. “Come,” Paz commands. “You have a story to tell, and I’m sure She’ll want to hear it.”

-

While Din left with Paz to talk to the Armorer, Corin was carted away by Raga to find food. 

He passes another spoonful of mash to the child, scooping up the dribble from his chin and passing it back into his mouth. The child coos and leans forward into the spoon as Corin brings it back for more. 

“ _ Gar suruyse?  _ All of them?” Raga’s voice is incredulous. 

Corin swallows around the lump in his throat and the nausea in his stomach. His food remains untouched in front of them. “All of them.” He dunks the spoon into the bowl and stirs.

Raga leans forward onto her elbows. “But… they’re back? You remember everything?”

Corin shrugs. “I think so? But how would I know.” The child makes grabby hands for more food. Corin puts on a smile and makes starship noises as he pilots the spoon towards his son. 

Raga mutters a curse under her breath. She shakes her head. They’re both quiet for a while. Focused on the baby instead of anything else. After a minute of tense silence, Raga clears her throat and changes the subject. “The twins have been keeping your cat by the way. They’re both quite attached so you might have to fight them for her.”

Corin whips around at the mention of Lucky. “She’s alive?” He had assumed the fire had taken everything. “How the hell did you find her?” 

The child fusses for the spoon which has frozen midair. He reaches out with the force and pulls the entire bowl towards him. “Ad’ika,” Corin scolds, pulling the bowl back. “Don’t make a mess.” The child whines again but accepts the hypnotizing spoon waving in front of his face. 

Raga waits for Corin to regain control of his foundling before she continues. “We received a distress signal from your homestead but by the time we got there it was too late. The house was in ruins. We saved what we could, including that loth-cat from hell,” Raga grumbles.

Corin chuckles. Lucky could be a bit… unfriendly to strangers. Her and Raga had always hated each other. “I take it she wasn’t too happy about the smoke?” Corin scrapes the bottom of the bowl for the last bit of mash.

Raga huffs and throws up a hand. “We couldn’t get the damn thing to stop  _ yowling  _ until Din and the kid showed up a few days later.”

Corin smiles, heart a little lighter. “We’ll let's go find her then.”

The chair squeaks as Raga stands, waiting for Corin to finish with the child. One last spoonful and a quick wipe with the hem of a shirt, and they’re both ready to go.

-

Just as Raga predicted, Arsu and Azizos are hesitant to hand over Lucky. But there’s not much they can do to stop her as she darts out from under their table and starts up an earth rattling purr around Corin’s ankles. The baby is just as happy to see Lucky as she is to see him. Corin sets the child down and the two run around taking turns chasing each other. He watches fondly from the doorway. The two are reunited as though they had never been apart. 

Corin remembers cleaning up the broken dishes from when they knocked over a table. It had been a nightmare at the time, trying to keep them out of the porcelain shards while he and Din had tried to clean up, but now it puts a fond smile on his face. 

It takes a punch to his shoulder from Raga to knock Corin out of his reverie. “Let me show you to your rooms so you’ll be out of my hair.” Her irritation is all for show. She has to keep up her intimidating image somehow, but Corin has seen her hand cookies to the child when she thinks no one is looking. When he first came, Corin might’ve taken her seriously, but now he brushes off her sarcasm with a roll of his eyes. 

He thanks the twins for taking care of Lucky. Then, with a whistle that could rival even the strictest drill sergeants, Corin corrals the cat and kid out of the door and down the hall.

-

It’s dark by the time Din has finished with the Armorer. She had had much to say about their situation and even had suspicions of a spy. How else had Jax found them twice without a lead? She had cautioned Din to be careful, wary of even his own husband. If Jax had tampered with Corin’s memories, there’s no telling what he might have left behind. 

Din had been offended at the very idea, but the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. As he walks towards his rooms, his mind keeps spinning with possibilities. He and Corin still haven’t had the chance to just sit down and talk. Din plans on rectifying that tonight. They both needed to figure out what was going on. 

Din knocks gently before he enters. When he opens the door the sight before him makes him nearly melt. Corin is half asleep, their child curled on his chest, their cat purring by his side, fingers petting lazily through the white fur. Din steps in as quietly as he can, all thoughts of a serious discussion go out the window. It can wait until morning. 

Corin smiles with half-lidded eyes, lifting his fingers in a lazy wave. Din smiles, hidden by the helmet. 

It’s the first thing to go as Din undresses, sliding to the side with a hiss and then up and over his head. Din runs a hand through his hair, smoothing out the knots and cowlicks, and giving up when it stands straight up. When he looks up, Corin is watching him with sharp eyes, fully awake. 

Din smiles again, this time for Corin to see, and watches as a matching dazzling smile spreads across his husband's face. Din will never get tired of that. Never bore of seeing his family together. Never take even a single moment of peace for granted. 

They never knew how long it might last.

Din can feel Corin's eyes on him as he continues to peel away the layers of beskar and leather armor until he’s finally down to his underclothes. When he’s finished and everything is put away, Din climbs under the blankets and curls into the warmth waiting for him. Corin’s leg jerks at the intrusion of cold but they both settle quickly with a huff of laughter. 

“The kid should be in his crib,” Din remarks, no real desire to move him. He’d rather the three of them, well, three and half, stay together tonight. He brushes a hand over the child’s sleeping form, lightly caressing an ear. 

Corin hums and nods. “You try to move him.” 

Din smiles, he seems to be doing that a lot lately, and tucks his chin into Corin's shoulder. He settles his hand over Corin’s on the child’s back, threading their fingers together. 

They’re quiet for a while. Basking in the peace and quiet after months of instability and fear. Din lets himself relax, the tension drops from his shoulders, the ever present vigilance put on the back burner. For now, he’s here. Right here. With his kid. With his  _ riduur.  _ And he can pretend nothing exists beyond their door. 

Din lets himself be completely vulnerable for the first time since the fire. A deep breath surrounded by Corin's scent, and the worry, anxiety, denial, drop from his mind and clatter to the floor with the snap of invisible chains. Right now it’s just them. They can deal with everything else in the morning. 

They’re both still awake, Corin’s free hand running across the small of Din’s back. Din sinks into the warmth of Corin’s chest under his cheek. “We need to talk,” Corin says, voice rumbling quietly in the room. 

Din nods in acknowledgement but makes no move to discuss it. “In the morning,  _ kar’ta.  _ Can you wait that long?” It’s an honest question. Din hasn’t been able to go longer than five minutes without thinking about it, and he knows Corin can't be much better. This is a big thing between them, and the longer they wait, the more it festers. Unfortunately, a year's worth of exhaustion nips at their heels and postpones any real conversation. They need to be awake to talk this out and right now, Din’s not sure he has that energy.

Corin lets out a sigh, of relief or resignation, Din’s not sure. “In the morning.” It’s a promise neither of them want to fulfill. This bliss, this peace, is temporary and acknowledging it brings the inevitable end their reprieve all the closer. 

Din presses a gentle kiss to Corin’s pec and then realizes he hasn’t kissed Corin since he woke up this morning. And that’s just unacceptable. He leans up, stretching and trying his best not to disturb the child. Corin meets him halfway, will always meet him halfway. 

The kiss is chaste and sweet but it’s all either of them need right now. Steady. Reassuring. Permanent. 

Din settles back against Corin’s chest. He lets out a sigh as muscles turn to putty and his eyelids grow heavy to the rhythm of Corin’s heartbeat. 

-

Corin doesn’t want to wake up. He wants to lay here and pretend he’s asleep for the rest of his life. He wants to listen to the kids screaming laughter and Din’s desperate shushing. He wants to feel Lucky’s weight at the foot of the bed. He wants the residual warmth on the pillow next to him.

He doesn’t want to face reality. But it comes to him anyway in the form of an energetic child pulling at his hand that’s dangling over the side of the bed. 

“Leave your dad alone, Ad’ika. He’s sleeping.” Din chastises. Corin’s eyes are closed but he can clearly see the frown and raised eyebrow on Din’s face. Corin feigns sleep for a moment more. He can hear rustling on the other side of the room and the light tinkling of beskar.

“Wake!” The child insists. The tiny claws at his fingers come again. Corin waits and then when the tapping comes for a third time he jerks awake to capture the kid’s wrist. 

“Got you!” Corin growls and gently yanks the squealing kid up onto the bed. He yanks up the robes and attacks his tiny stomach with raspberries. There’s another peal of ear piercing laughter as the child desperately tries to get away. 

There’s a slight push from the force. Nothing purposeful or malicious. It’s not even enough to move Corin’s hand. It’s most likely involuntary and yet Corin jerks back like he’s touched a hot flame. All playfulness gone. He feels like a bucket of water has been dumped over him.

Hands around his throat, curling against his windpipe, stealing air from his lungs and the life from his eyes. Fists in his hair yanking and pulling him down a long hallway. A probe forcing itself deep into his mind and  _ twisting.  _ A wall pushing and pushing and pushing. A voice whispered across exposed fragments of memories. 

The child stops cold, feeling his father’s fear, his anxiety, the sudden shortness of breath and wild eyes. The child’s eyes well with tears and then spill over, hiccups quickly turning to sobs as he realizes what he’s done. 

Corin is quick to snap out of it, rushing forward to reassure the child but the damage has already been done. “No. No. Shh, Ad’ika. Don’t cry. I’m okay.” His own eyes burn in frustration as he tries in vain to get the fussing baby to calm down. He picks him up off the bed and cradles him against his shoulder. “Not your fault. You’re okay. Shh.” Corin’s voice doesn’t sound reassuring even to himself. It only causes the crying to get worse. 

Din’s hand on his shoulder causes Corin to startle, having forgotten the other man was in the room at all. “Let me take him,” Din offers, hands already wrapping around the kid’s shoulders. Corin hands him over easily, left to sit on the bed with his head in his hands. 

His fault. This is his fault. Corin pulls at his shirt collar, trying to lessen the tightness he feels around his neck. The child is still crying and Corin can hear Din beginning to calm him down. His fault. If he hadn’t reacted that way. If he had kept his emotions in check. If he had-

Lucky curls into Corin’s lap, purring into his fingers as she forces him to pet her. 

“I’m gonna go find Paz,” Din says, already halfway out of the door. “I’ll be right back. I promise.” His voice is distant in Corin’s ears, but he nods anyway, and then Corin is alone. 

A soft meow pulls Corin’s attention down to his lap. An insistent and needy loth-cat making her demands known. Corin chuckles bitterly, blinking away the wetness in his eyes, and petting over her fur. 

Din is back, child safely deposited into more experienced hands, before Corin has managed to calm down. When a weight settles beside him and an arm pulls around his shoulders, Corin can’t help but sink into it. Lucky hops off of his lap, her job completed for now. 

“I’m sorry. That was my fault. He didn’t do anything,” Corin mumbles, trying to explain what the hell just happened. Trying to get himself under control.  _ Trying _ to force his panic back where it belongs.

There is no judgement in Don’s voice. “I know.” His hands rub reassuringly over Corin’s back. 

Corin pulls at his hair, mouth running to apologize. “I just- he just- he  _ pushed _ . Like he does. And I freaked out. And then he freaked out. And it’s my fault. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m-“

“Corin.” 

Corin’s mouth clicks shut. Din pulls him in tighter. “None of this is your fault.” 

“But I-“

Din cuts him off again, this time with a finger to his lips. “None of it.” The hand holds Corin’s head and then slips back to hold his neck, pulling him forward to rest against Din’s helmet. “You were kidnapped. Tortured. Reconditioned. And then manipulated. For ten months. No one is blaming you for this.  _ None _ of this is your fault.” 

Corin nods against the cool metal, feeling himself settle. His eyes drift closed and his entire body weight leans into the contact. Din supports him, taking as much from him as he’ll give. They lay back against the disheveled bed and breathe together. 

Corin’s heartbeat has almost returned to a normal level by the time either of them speak again. “Are you ready to talk now?” Din asks, shifting so he can better look at Corin.

Corin nods and rolls to his back to stare up at the ceiling. Din props himself up on an elbow so he can look Corin in the eyes. “What do you remember?”

Corin swallows and frowns, trying to think. Getting his memories back had been less of a tidal wave of new information and more like gaining access to a part of the house you always knew was there. Like a block had been lifted and the pieces fell into place that had been right in front of him the entire time. From empty to filled by simply flipping the cup. 

The worst part is, he’s not sure if the lack of details is normal, or a symptom. Of course he doesn’t remember the exact details of a conversation he had a year and a half ago with Cara, half drunk at a bar on Bespin, but should he? Should it concern him that he doesn’t remember what shoes she was wearing or even the name of the bar they were at? Did she even remember?

“I’m not sure,” Corin admits. Terrified to even consider there might be parts of himself he’ll never get back.

Din sets a hand on Corin’s chest. “Start at the beginning.”

Corin’s not exactly sure what that means so he goes back, farther and farther, trying to find his oldest memory. It’s a flickering snapshot, huddled in the cold, extreme weather endurance training at four years old. There should be pain or anger associated with the abuse, Corin knows that, but all he feels is numb.

“I remember my father. The training. My uncle. My mother.” Corin pauses and takes a breath and starts to look through his highlight reel. It’s not pretty. “And then.. the academy. Years of the same thing. Then the death star. And the second one. And being restationed and…” 

Corin reaches a hand up to touch Din’s helmet. “You. I remember you. And the kid. Saving me from falling into the ice. Sacrificing myself to the bounty hunters. And then…” Corin frowns and shakes his head. “It’s blurry. A copy. Two memories that are almost exactly the same except… in one you come save me, and in the other you don’t.” He clings to Din’s form like a lifeline. 

Corin rubs a hand over his face. “Obviously, I know which one is real. But there’s so many like that. And some of them aren’t that easy.” 

Din nods, offering his silent comfort, letting Corin talk as much as he needs. Letting the words spill that had been confined for days. “And I know you love me. And I know I love you. And I  _ remember _ loving you. But I remember so much else too. And I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. What’s normal and what’s not.” 

Corin is nearly out of breath when he stops talking, taking in a gasp of breath. Din is brushing through his hair and moving his hand comfortingly across Corin’s side. It’s almost too much. Corin sinks into it, lets himself be taken care of. 

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to get through this together, okay? No matter what.” Din holds his voice steady. Corin believes him. He knows that no matter what they’re pushed through, Din will always be there with him at the end of it. 

-

As much as both of them would like, they can’t stay in bed all day. Eventually, they have to reclaim the child. Eventually, they have to unpack the  _ Crest _ . Eventually, they have to answer the hundreds of questions waiting for them. 

Corin takes his time getting ready. Din waits, cleaning the room and putting away toys the child has already managed to scatter across the floor. When Corin finally steps out of the refresher, he feels a lot lighter than he had only an hour ago. 

“Ready?” Din asks, holding out a hand. 

Corin takes it. “No,” he answers honestly. “But I’ve got you.” 

The errands are the easy part. Corin has no trouble distracting himself. It’s the questions. The ones meant in good humor or genuine curiosity. They had been gone for months, it’s reasonable for people to want to know what happened. Paz, at the very least, deserves the full story. And when the heavy infantryman comes with questions, Corin does his best to answer. 

“You shot him?!” Paz laughs. It’s full bellied and even Din gives an amused tilt of his helmet. 

It’s not funny. 

Corin can't help but feel like they’re making light of his trauma. His gut twists but he smiles anyways. At least he got his memories back at all. That’s all he can keep telling himself. 

“Hey, all I saw was a crazy mando!” Corin teases, stomach churning. “You would’ve shot him too.” His grip on Din’s hand is too tight to be casual. The child rests on his knees, drooling on some toy deemed safe enough for him.

Paz huffs and crosses his arms. “I would shoot him anyway.”

Din grumbles but doesn’t take the bait. He leans into Corin, passing it off as nonchalant, not that he needs an excuse, and Corin readily leans back into him. They support each other, that’s all they can do. 

By the time Paz leaves them alone, Corin feels like maybe this wouldn’t be impossible. 

-

Errands finished for the day, Din passes the sleepy child off to the resident babysitter. Tonight, it’s Barthor. While Corin would usually feel guilty about it, they need a night alone. 

Corin sits on the edge of the bed and watches with appreciation as Din skillfully strips from his armor. 

“You know,” Corin hums, standing and making his way across the room. “I’ve been home for weeks.” His hands slide across the beskar back-plate, coming up to tug on the straps across Din’s shoulders. “And you haven’t even kissed me properly.” 

Din’s hands freeze, breath hitching audibly through his helmet. Corin can see his pulse racing from where he’s so close to that exposed neck. Corin picks up where Din left off. Din hands having fallen useless to his sides, rendered incompetent by the mere intent behind Corin’s words. Corin swiftly loosens a buckle, and then another, letting the backplate come loose. He carefully sets it aside. “Care to fix that?” Corin asks, breath ghosting over Din’s flushed skin, hands roaming over the exposed curves of muscle bracketing Din’s spine. 

Din is quick to answer.

-

Corin screams himself awake. Hands grapple at his shoulders in an attempt to calm him down but in the shadows and haze of panic they’re pulling to restrain him. The hands are forcing him down, dragging him to the reconditioning room, yanking at his hair, clenching as they pull the very breath from his lungs. 

“Get OFF!” Corin shoves the hands away and jumps. He lands on the floor. The cold concrete is harsh against flushed skin. The cotton that makes up his thin sleep pants scrapes against his hypersensitive nerves. 

The nightmares haven’t gone away. Corin hoped that maybe getting his memories back would solve the problem. It made them so much worse. So so much worse.

His breath comes in short gasps and when Din reaches for him again, this time he doesn’t jerk away. He clings to the contact and let’s Din pull him back to bed.

Corin’s thoughts race. Doubt. Panic. Fear. “Ask me something,” he begs.

“What?” Din is still half asleep, not quite registering what Corin needs. 

Corin pulls at the sheets. “ _ Ask me something!” _

“Okay! Okay.” Din cards a hand through Corin hair, pulling him down against his chest. “Settle, Cyar’ika. I’m right here.”

Corin’s hands curl uselessly against the sheets and Din’s bare skin, searching for something to hold on to. “Din. Please. I can’t-“

“Okay. Um-“ Din pauses, trying to think. “What’s my favorite color?”

“Blue.” Corin answers without hesitation. His voice shakes. 

Din nods, brushing Corin’s hair from his face. “Why?” He pulls Corin closer, so they’re face to face, sharing the same pillow. Din leans in, running his nose over the curve of Corin’s jaw. 

“Um,” Corin frowns. “Because my eyes are blue?” His head tilts to the side. 

Din smiles against Corin’s cheek. “Mhmm.”

Corin takes another deep breath. “Ask me something else. Please.”

Din kisses along Corin’s jaw line. Trailing from his chin to his ear. He lingers on the hollow behind his jaw and right under his ear. His breath is slow and even, intending to comfort rather than arouse. “Our cat-“

“Lucky,” Corin fills in immediately. 

Din hums and nods, every movement intending to calm and reassure. “Do you remember how we found her?”

Corin swallows, his hands tighten where they’re twisted in the sheets over Din’s shoulders. “I fed her because she was hungry even though you told me not to.”

“Mhmm and then what happened,” Din prompts, his blinks are slow and Corin can see how hard his mandalorian is fighting off sleep. Corin feels guilty for keeping Din awake, making him deal with this. As if Din can feel his insecurity, he pulls Corin that much closer. 

“She had kittens under our porch. I was scared you would get mad so I didn’t tell you,” Corin says. His voice isn’t quite so shaky, uneven, timid. He starts to relax. 

“But I found out anyway,” Din adds, irritation coloring his tone. 

Corin smiles. “But you found out anyway.”

“Because the kid brought me one of the kittens.”

Corin laughs at the memory. “He put it right in your lap. He was just trying to share. You were thrilled.” He can see the image clear as day, racing in to try and stop him, seeing the shock on Din’s face as it turned too late. 

“ _ Thrilled _ . Right. Are you  _ sure _ you remember?” Din teases. 

It takes a moment for the joke to register but then Corin is laughing much harder than he should be. “Oh I’m sure. You were so excited to have an entire secret litter of kittens living under the house. So excited in fact, that you ran out to see them.”

“And found you, the culprit, with half a dozen sleeping loth-cats in your lap.” They tell the story to each other, reminding themselves of the details. 

“Then we adopted Lucky.” Corin reaches down to scratch at her collar. 

“Adopted is a strong word,” Din grumbles rolling away from Corin and facing the wall instead. Pride wounded. 

Corin wraps a hand around his waist and pulls Din back against him. He leans in over Din’s shoulder. “I may have lost my memories but I very clearly recall you getting worried when she ran into the woods for a week.”

“She could’ve brought in some disease and gotten the kid sick!” Din tries to defend, but Corin doesn’t believe a single word. “It’s better she stays with us so we know where she’s been.”

“Right. It had nothing to do with the fact that you’ve got a soft spot for strays?” Corin teases, smugness written all over his face. 

“Oh? And what does that make you?” Din turns to look at Corin over his shoulder with an accusing look.

“Lucky that you found  _ me _ before some other broken pretty thing.” 

Din grumbles and rolls them over, jerking Corin around and nipping playfully at the back of his neck where it’s the most ticklish. Corin giggles and tries to squirm out of Din’s hold. It's not much of a struggle. Din has an iron grip around his waist. Corin gives in easily. 

It’s quiet, both settled against each other. “No,” Din whispers into the nape of his neck. “You found me, cyare. Not the other way around.”

Corin feels his eyes burn. “I love you.” He’ll never tire of saying it.

“I love you too,  _ ner kar’ta _ .  _ Nuhoy _ , rest, I’m right here.” 

-

The main hall is loud and busy, people constantly moving to attend to whatever business they have. Corin is over on one wall, only half-paying attention as he gets roped into some conversation by Dozer, a young over-excited mandalorian who talks to anyone that will listen. 

Corin frowns. “Wait,” he interrupts. “Say that again.”

Dozer cocks his head to the side. “Say what again?”

Corin purses his lips and waves a hand. “The thing about the implants.”

“Oh!” The green helmet perks up, surprised someone was still listening. “We used implants to keep track of strays. They got lost in the sandstorms, and we’d have to go out and find them in the morning.” 

Corin blinks. Unconsciously, his hand drifts up to the base of his neck. His fingers poke and prod until he finds it. Right there. No bigger than a grain of rice. Right at the base of his skull, close enough to his brain stem that it would be nearly impossible to remove, especially if it had calcified. 

Missing pieces click into place. Corin stands and leaves the room without saying goodbye. He doesn’t see Dozer’s friendly wave. His hand is still plastered to the back of his neck. 

He runs to find Din. They’ve been here for days. It’s possible the empire was already on their way. This had to have been how Jax had found them the first time, and probably the second as well. It had been Corin's fault. The whole time. How had he forgotten? Every snow trooper had one. How could he have been so stupid?

Corin finds Din exactly where he said he would be, helping in the kitchens with the kid. Din almost seems startled to see Corin there and the way he busts through the doors couldn’t have helped either. 

“Feel this.” Corin demands, grabbing one of Din’s dirty hands and pressing down above the bump. 

“Corin, what-“ And then he feels it, moving back and forth over the implant. “Oh.” It can’t be mistaken for anything else. Corin turns back around, eyes wide. His swallow is audible even over the background noise of the kitchen.

Din drops the peeler onto the counter and takes Corin’s hands. “Look at me.” Corin tries to make eye contact through the visor. “Corin. It’s okay. Let’s go down to the medbay and figure this out.” Corin nods, almost mindlessly. Not quite able to process yet. Din squeezes his hands and then drops them. He turns back to the counter and picks up the child from where he had been sitting. 

Din hikes the kid up on one hip and takes Corin’s hand in the other. “I’ll be back in a minute!” Din hollers and leads them out through the swinging doors. 

-

It’s exactly what they thought it would be. A grain of rice with a blinking red light powered by body heat. The range was no bigger than two systems. Two entire systems full of planets and space stations and moons and Corin’s mind is whirring with the possibilities of who might already be on their tail.

Last time they had been tracked to their cabin in the middle of nowhere and still the Empire had burned it to the ground. This time they would be lead into the heart of the city with an entire people under its feet. What would they do then?

Corin can't handle their blood on his hands. 

“I’m sorry.” It feels like the only thing he can say anymore. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I should’ve realized years ago. I’m so sorry. This is-“

Din raises a hand and Corin stops short. “If you say ‘my fault’ one more time I’m gonna lose it.”

Corin can't say anything else so he just keeps his mouth shut. 

Din sets a hand on Corin’s cheek. “You remembered. That’s what matters.” 

Din reaches out with his free hand and snaps the tracker between his fingers, blinking red light going quiet. The signal gone out. No one was coming for them. Not anymore. 

-

Corin’s hands are still shaking as Din pulls them into the closet and away from the prying of the rest of the tribe. He’s not exactly sure what triggered the panic attack, but that wasn’t important right now. He needs to get Corin to settle. 

This was the first one in nearly a week. They were making progress even if it didn’t feel like it. Din has to remember that. They used to be near daily. 

Din reaches out and takes Corin’s hands, bringing them up to either side of his helmet, just resting on the cool metal. “Talk to me, Cyare.” Din can’t help if Corin won’t talk to him. 

The shivers travel up Corin’s wrists and into his shoulders until his entire body is shaking. “I could’ve handed over the kid.” Corin chokes on a sob, eyes red and filled with tears. “I could’ve-” 

“But you didn’t,” Din reminds forcefully. 

“But I almost did! If I hadn’t-“

“You  _ didn’t.”  _ Din pulls on Corin’s wrist to get him to focus. Corin eventually looks up from the ground. Din continues. “You didn’t and that’s what matters. He’s safe. He’s with us.”

“But-“

“No, Corin.” The fight leaves Din’s body. He’s so tired of arguing this. He lets his helmet rest against Corin’s forehead. “You didn’t and you never would have. Because you’re a good father. And you knew the whole time he was lying. He took your memories, not who you are. Corin, Ner Kar’ta, you never would have gone with him.” 

It hurts. It hurts because Din knows. Knows without a doubt that no matter how many times that day replays in their minds, no matter what Jax could’ve said, what he could’ve done, in no situation does Jax come out on top. Even in the deepest reconditioning, Corin would never hand over the child. 

And Corin can’t see that.

“How can you be so sure?” Corin asks. Doubt. There’s always so much doubt. 

Din shakes his head. There’s so much he wants to say. He could spend hours telling Corin all the reasons he knows Corin is a good man. It still wouldn’t be enough. It boils down to one indisputable fact in Din’s mind. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“I think so.” Corin laughs bitterly, looking down at his hands and shaking them out. The tremors have lessened, they might never fully go away. 

Din lifts his helmet just enough to press a kiss to Corin’s lips. “That’s all the proof I need.”

-

It wasn’t often that the planet got rain. The smog and industrialization from the city created a type of weather all on its own. It never mattered much, since the covert was underground and never saw much of the outside anyway. 

But occasionally, Corin ventures above. 

Whether it’s for supplies or just a breath of fresh air. The kid always tags along, eager for a change in pace and a chance to stretch his legs. Din usually comes as well, no excuse other than a need to be with his family. He knows Corin can take care of himself, but that doesn’t mean he has to. 

The kid stays close, too many people and not enough eyes looking down to watch for children. He walks between his parents, shielded by their bodies as they plow a path through the herds of people. 

There’s species of every shape, color, and creed. Corin can't help but be reminded of the trip he took to Coruscant as a child. His mother had held his hand a little too tightly the entire time they were there, scared to lose him in the never ending tide of bodies. Corin understands now, her worry, looking down at his own child that is too curious for his own good. 

Their trip was supposed to be short. Up, grab what they needed, and then back down. But then there was the sweet stand, and the toy maker, and the exotic weapons smith. All three of them took turns dragging the others around the market to see what was up for sale. 

Din quickly set a limit on how many credits they could spend after walking away with a toy from the third vendor. 

They’re all so wrapped up in the domesticity of it all, that they don’t notice when it starts to rain. First a drizzle and then pouring in buckets and buckets as they race their way back to shelter. 

Corin has to stop, leaning against a wall under an awning, out of breath from laughter more than the running. Din is absolutely soaked and somehow manages to look more miserable when the awning begins to drip. Water drops tink against the beskar helmet. Corin is surprised his fury isn’t enough to turn it to steam.

The child is having a field day, kicking up puddles and splashing as much of it as he could into their shoes. 

“Do-“ Corin can barely continue; he's laughing so much. It takes him nearly a minute to get himself back under control. Din waits impatiently, arms crossed over his chest, but Corin can read the fondness betrayed by the tilt of his helmet. “Do you remember that day back home?” Corin asks between gasps. “When we got caught in the storm like this?” 

“You mean the day we got covered in mud?” Din grumbles. “Yes. Yes I  _ distinctly _ remember that.” He wipes a gloved hand over his visor, trying to rid it of water droplets. 

Corin’s smile only gets wider at Din’s vehement disgust. “You were coated! It took us forever to get the mud out of Ad’ika’s toes.” 

“And out of your hair,” Din adds, voice tilting up with a hint of amusement. He moves out from under the awning. Corin and the child have no choice but to follow him. Corin quickly refinds his place at Din’s side. 

“Oh don’t act like it was such a chore for you. You made me clean all your armor.” Corin jabs Din’s ribs with his elbow, hitting the weak spot between his chestplate and backplate with well aimed precision. 

Din glares in his direction. “I made you clean it because you pushed me in!” 

Corin smiles. “I pulled you in after you tripped me! Don’t make this my fault.”

To an outsider it may have seemed like they were actually fighting, soaked to the bone, and stomping home in the rain with a waterlogged child between them. But in reality Corin hadn’t been this happy in a long time. Hidden smiles and inside jokes. Concealed laughter and friendly bickering. It was all part of the way they worked so well together. And the child between them was at the heart of all of that.

-

“Corin!” Din calls.

Corin’s head snaps up into the direction of the bathroom. “Yes?”

Din lets out a frustrated grunt as something crashes. Corin snickers behind his hand. “Where are my pants?” Din yells, irritation in every word. 

Corin looks down at the fabric on his hands, a sly smile on his face. “How would I know?”

Din walks in from the refresher, shirt pulled down to cover himself. Corin doesn’t even try to hide the way he eyes devour Din’s muscled thighs and lean calves. The open expanse of golden skin and the distinct impression of teeth marks on Din’s inner thigh. 

Din frowns and snatches them from Corin’s hands. 

“Oh would you look at that!” Corin smiles innocently, eyes devouring the way Din’s roughly hikes up the waistband over the curve of his ass. “I forgot they were there. So sorry.” He knocks on the side of his head. “Memory loss.” nhlo;p

Din glares in Corin’s direction. “You have no shame. Do you?”

Corin unabashedly winks. “None.” 

-

Corin watches from the back of the room with the other parents as their foundlings run around the room in some complicated game of tag. It’s some type of early training lesson, muscle coordination and reflexes, but to them it’s just a game. The child is a bit too young for anything serious and for now, it really is nothing more than just a game of chase. 

There’s a chorus of laughter and squealing and screaming that almost sounds like someone is getting killed. Corin doesn’t try to keep the smile from his face. 

Corin just stands there and watches them play, watches them have the childhood that he never did. He’s not sure how long he’s watching guard, playing ref and mediator for any conflicts, but eventually Din comes to stand by his side. 

They stand silently, no real need for words between them. Corin puts a hand on the small of Din’s back and tugs him just an inch, or three, closer. 

Content isn’t a word Corin thought he could ever use to describe himself again. This is more than he ever expected to regain. The shadow of CT-113 looms, will never go away, will follow him until he can no longer walk to outrun it. But it will fade and the burden will become easier to bear. It’s moments like this that make it all worth it. Watching their little green bean run back and forth trying to tag the others with his short arms and stubby legs. 

“What if we stayed?” Corin asks. He’s not sure where the thought comes from, but even as he says it he knows he wants it to be true. They never had the option before, with the empire on their heels, but maybe now, after Jax, after Gideon, after everything that’s happened, they could stay where they were meant to be. 

Din’s visor turns to look at him, quiet in his deliberation. Corin starts to get nervous that he’s asked the wrong thing, pushed too far. He keeps his eyes forward on the kids, unable to meet Din’s gaze.

“Okay.” 

Corins head whips around. “Okay?” Surely, Din wasn’t going to give in that easily. Surely, there had to be some negotiation on this. 

“Okay.” Din nods. “We’ll stay.” And that’s that. 

-

It’s been four long months since Jax had died, Corin had regained his memories, and they had returned to the covert. It’s been four long months of struggle and tears and anxiety and stress and learning how to be himself again. They’re still nowhere close to where they were before, but for the first time, it’s beginning to get better. 

Corin’s been through hell and back. It definitely hasn’t been easy. But standing here in front of the forge is one of the easiest things he’s ever done. 

The Armorer has heard their request. She continues to work as she speaks. “Vow renewals are not traditional. It is unnecessary for you to take the oath again.”

Corin waits with bated breath. He squeezes Din’s hand for support. The child coos from where he’s held in his other arm.

The Armorer tilts her head. “But for your situation we will make an exception, Corin Djarin.” Corin can't keep the wide smile from spreading across his face. He turns to face Din who’s every emotion is written in the shaking of his hands and the way he leans into Corin’s orbit. 

It feels like the first time they were here. Nearly three years ago. Everything was so different then, and yet Din’s hands are still shaking in his own.

Corin leans in to rest his forehead against Din’s helmet. Their hands clasped and the child held between them. The kid giggles and pats Din’s chestplate. “Last chance to back out,” Corin teases.

“Not on your life,” Din promises.

Corin laughs, happier than he has been in a long long time. He blinks away tears. God, they hadn’t even started yet and he was already overwhelmed with emotion. Corin has never been more in love with the man in front of him. This is his family. This is where he belongs. 

The Armorer clears her throat and the two pull back from each other to look at her. “Do you remember your vows, Corin?”

How could he forget them? 

“Yes.” Corin’s voice is no more than a breath. 

The matriarch nods, and her attention turns to Din. “And do you, Din Djarin?”

The Mandalorian has to clear his throat before he can speak. “I do.” 

The Armorer sets aside the piece of armor she was working on, letting it cool on the workbench. She comes to stand in front of them. “You pledge yourselves to each other and your foundling before the Forge of Mandalore. This is the way.”

In unison, they repeat the manta back to her. “This is the way.” 

The Armorer nods. Corin takes a deep breath and turns back to Din. He’s already done this before. He shouldn’t feel so nervous. Just like before, Din takes the lead, his voice rough with emotion as he recites the first line. Corin follows immediately after, the Mando’a as familiar to him as the child’s laughter and the rattling of a badly repaired engine. 

“Mhi solus tome. _ ” We are one when together. _

“Mhi solus dar'tome. _ ” We are one when parted. _

“Mhi me'dinui an.” _ We share all. _

“Mhi ba'juri verde”  _ We will raise warriors. _

Corin feels gloved hands wrap around the back of his neck and pull him in. Corin lets his eyes drift closed. Here. Right here. This is where he’s meant to be. No amount of reconditioning could ever take that away from him. 

Din speaks softly, a whisper only Corin can hear. “I have crossed the horizons to find you. And I’ll cross them again to keep you. To have you by my side for the rest of my life.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for sticking with me from a one-shot turned into much much more. Through plot bunnies and all my inconsistencies. I never thought I would ever publish a fic, let alone for my very first one to turn into this monster. 45k words and 7 chapters later and here we are... my first fic is completed. I almost didn't want it to end but the story must come to a conclusion eventually. Thank you guys again for all your support and of course, Lady Irina. 
> 
> Lady you mean the world to me and you characters have inspired me like nothing else has. You have a wonderful talent for bringing an entire universe to life. I appreciate you more than you know and thanks again for letting your little fandom borrow Corin! We cherish him as much as we do you.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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